tTHE  LIBRARY 

omnsmr  <*  ****** 

LOS  ANGELES 


MATTHKW   ARNOLD. 


THE    POETICAL    WORKS 


OF 


MATTHEW  ARNOLD 


COMPLETE  EDITION 
WITH  BIOGRAPHICAL   INTRODUCTION 


-0-0>S<00- 


NEW  YORK:  46  East  14TH  Street 

THOMAS  Y.  CROWELL  &  COMPANY 

BOSTON  :   100  Purchase  Street 


Copyright,  1897, 
By  T.   Y.  CROWELL  &  CO. 


Novtoootj  3Prcss 

J.  S.  Cuahing  &  Co.  —  Berwick  &  Smith 

Norwood  Mass.  U.S.A. 


A 


CONTENTS. 


»o* 

PAGE 

Note viii 

Biographical  Introduction ix 

Bibliography xxiii 

EARLY  POEMS. 
Sonnets  :  — 

Quiet  Work i 

To  a  Friend          ........  2 

Shakspeare        ........  2 

Written  in  Emerson's  Essays       .....  3 

Written  in  Butler's  Sermons    .....  3 

To  the  Duke  of  Wellington        .....  4 

"  In  Harmony  with  Nature  ".....  5 

To  George  Cruikshank         ......  5 

To  a  Republican  Friend,  1848         ....  6 

Continued     .........  7 

Religious  Isolation   .......  7 

Mycerinus 8 

The  Church  of  Brou : — 

I.   The  Castle  .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .  12 

II.   The  Church  .         .         .         .         .         .         .16 

III.   The  Tomb 18 

A  Modern  Sappho 19 

Requiescat 21 

Youth  and  Calm 22 

A  Memory-Picture 23 

The  New  Sirens 25 

The  Voice 34 

Youth's  Agitations 36 


iv  CONTENTS. 

TAGE 

The  World's  Triumphs 36 

Stagirius 37 

Human  Life 39 

To  a  Gypsy  Child  by  the  Seashore         ...  40 

A  Question 43 

In  Utrumque  Paratus        ....  43 

The  World  and  the  Quietist 45 

The  Second  Best 46 

Consolation 47 

Resignation •  .  49 

A  Dream          .        .        .        . 58 

Horatian  Echo 59 

NARRATIVE  POEMS. 

SOHRAB   AND   RUSTUM 6l 

The  Sick  King  in  Bokhara 88 

Balder  Dead  :  — 

I.    Sending 96 

II.   Journey  to  the  Dead          ...                  .  106 

III.    Funeral "6 

Tristram  and  Iseult  :  — 

I.   Tristram     .......  133 

II.    Iseult  of  Ireland 145 

III.    Iseult  of  Brittany 152 

Saint  Brandan 159 

The  Neckan 162 

The  Forsaken  Merman         ....  .164 

SONNETS. 

Austerity  of  Poetry          .        .                .  169 

A  Picture  at  Newstead        .                       ...  169 
Rachel:  I.,  II.,  III.     .               .                             .170 

Worldly  Place •  J72 


CONTENTS.  V 

PAGE 

East  London  .                         172 

West  London 173 

East  and  West 173 

The  Better  Part 174 

The  Divinity 174 

Immortality 175 

The  Good  Shepherd  with  the  Kid    .        .        .        -175 

Monica's  Last  Prayer 176 


LYRIC  AND  DRAMATIC  POEMS. 

Switzerland  :  — 

I.    Meeting 177 

II.    Parting 178 

III.  A  Farewell 181 

IV.  Isolation.     To  Marguerite         .         .         .         .  184 
V.   To  Marguerite.     Continued           .         .         .         .  1S5 

VI.    Absence     ........  186 

VII.   The  Terrace  at  Berne 1S7 

The  Strayed  Reveller 189 

Fragment  of  an  "Antigone" 199 

Fragment  of  Chorus  of  a  "  Dejaneira  "         .        .  203 

Early  Death  and  Fame        ......  204 

Philomela 204 

Urania 206 

Euphrosyne 207 

Calais  Sands 208 

Faded  Leaves  :  — 

I.    The  River  .......  209 

II.   Too  Late      .         .         .         ...         .         .         .  210 

III.  Separation  .......  210 

IV.  On  the   Rhine       .  .  ....  21 1 

V.    Longing    .  .....  21 1 


vi  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

despondency 212 

Self-Deception 212 

Dover  Beach 213 

Growing  Old 215 

The  Progress  of  Poesy 216 

Pis  Aller 216 

The  Last  Word 217 

A  Nameless  Epitaph 217 

Empedocles  on  Etna 218 

Bacchanalia;  or,  the  New  Age       ....  256 

Epilogue  to  Lessing's  Laocoon 260 

Persistency  of  Poetry 266 

A  Caution  to  Poets 266 

The  Youth  of  Nature 267 

The  Youth  of  Man .271 

Palladium 275 

Progress 275 

Revolutions 277 

Self-Dependence 278 

Morality 279 

A  Summer  Night 280 

The  Buried  Life 2S3 

Lines  written  in  Kensington  Gardens       .        .        .  286 

A  Wish 288 

The  Future 290 

New  Rome 293 

The  Lord's  Messengers 294 

Meruit. •  295 

ELEGIAC  POEMS. 

The  Scholar-Gypsy        ...               ...  381 

Thyrsis         ....                 ....  389 


CONTENTS.  Vli 

PAGE 

Memorial  Verses 397 

Stanzas  in  Memory  of  Edward  Quillinan     .        .  400 

Stanzas  from  Carnac 401 

A  Southern  Night 402 

Haworth  Churchyard 407 

Epilogue 411 

Rugby  Chapel 411 

Heine's  Grave 418 

Stanzas  from  the  Grande  Chartreuse       .        .        .  425 

Stanzas  in  Memory  of  the  Author  of  Obermann    .  432 

Obermann  Once  More 438 

LATER  POEMS. 

Westminster  Abbey 451 

Geist's  Grave 457 

Poor  Matthias 460 

Kaiser  Dead 467 

S.  S.  "  Lusitania  " 470 

ADDITIONAL  EARLY  POEMS. 

Alaric  at  Rome 471 

Cromwell 481 

The  Hayswater  Boat 488 

Sonnet  to  the  Hungarian  Nation      ....  490 

Destiny        .        .        . 490 

Courage 491 

Thekla's  Answer 492 

Notes 493 


NOTE. 

The  present  edition  of  the  poetical  works  of  Matthew  Arnold 
is  enriched  by  the  addition  of  all  of  his  earlier  and  later  poems, 
hitherto  uncollected.  This  includes  a  reprint  of  his  two  prize 
poems,  "Alaric  at  Rome"  and  "Cromwell";  the  first  having 
been  recently  discovered  in  almost  unique  copies,  has  attracted 
much  attention  and  interest  not  only  as  the  earliest  known  work 
of  their  talented  author,  but  also  for  its  inherent  beauty  and 
power. 

This  edition  is  therefore  most  complete  in  every  respect.  The 
brief  Biography  depends  chiefly  for  its  accuracy  on  the  interest- 
ing series  of  letters  edited  by  Mr.  George  W.  C.  Russell,  and  on 
the  friendly  criticism  of  Prof.  Charles  Eliot  Norton,  who  was  one 
of  Mr.  Matthew  Arnold's  most  intimate  friends. 


BIOGRAPHICAL   INTRODUCTION. 


Matthew  Arnold  was  born  at  Laleham,  in  the  valley  of  the 
Thames,  December  24,  1822.  He  was  the  oldest  son  of  "the 
great  and  good  "  Thomas  Arnold,  so  well  known  as  the  Head 
Master  of  Rugby  School.  His  grandfather  Arnold  was  Col- 
lector of  Customs  at  Cowes  on  the  Isle  of  Wight.  His  mother 
was  Mary,  daughter  of  the  Reverend  John  Penrose,  Vicar  of 
Fledborough  Nolls. 

When  he  was  eight  years  old,  he  became  a  pupil  of  his  uncle, 
the  Reverend  John  Buckland,  with  whom  he  continued  at  Lale- 
ham until  August,  1836,  when  he  entered  "Commoners"  at 
Winchester  under  Dr.  Moberly,  afterwards  Bishop  of  Salisbury. 
Matthew  Arnold  took  such  high  rank  in  the  school  that  he 
escaped  the  "  austere  system  "  of  fagging  then  in  vogue,  and 
his  father,  who  had  desired  him  to  have  the  full  benefit  of  it, 
removed  him  to  Rugby  at  the  end  of  a  year.  There  he  had  a 
training  for  which  he  rejoiced  all  his  life :  it  was,  to  use  his  own 
words,  "so  unworldly,  so  sound,  so  pure." 

In  1840  he  won  a  school-prize  with  a  poem,  "  Alaric  at  Rome," 
which  was  published  anonymously  and  has  since  become  very 
scarce,  only  four  copies  being  extant.  It  has  been  recently  re- 
published and  commended  by  able  critics  for  its  depth  of  thought 
and  accuracy  of  form.  Having  been  elected  to  an  open  classi- 
cal scholarship  at  Balliol,  he  went  to  Oxford  the  following  year. 
Before  he  left  Rugby  he  distinguished  himself  by  winning  a 
School-Exhibition.  In  1842  he  won  the  Hertford  Scholarship; 
in  1843  his  poem  on  Cromwell  brought  him  the  Newdigate  Prize. 
It  was  not  delivered  aloud,  the  students  being  too  uproarious, 
but  it  was  published  in  an  edition  of  seven  hundred  and  fifty 
copies,  all  of  which  were  sold  within  a  few  days.  He  received 
ten  pounds  for  the  copyright.  He  was  elected  Fellow  of  Oriel 
in  1845,  Just  thirty  years  after  the  election  of  his  father.  Arthur 
Hugh  Clough,  Dean  Church,  and  other  noted  men  were  among 


X  BIOGRAPHICAL   INTRODUCTION. 

his  colleagues  at  the  famous  college.  After  teaching  the  classics 
for  a  short  time  in  the  Fifth  Form  at  Rugby,  he  was  appointed 
Private  Secretary  to  the  Earl  of  Lansdowne,  Lord  President  of 
the  Council. 

As  early  as  1848  he  began  to  sound  his  trumpet  against  the 
fictitiousness  of  English  manners  and  civility  and  to  find  in 
Greek  serenity  a  lesson  for  all  time.  He  clearly  saw  what  civili- 
zation in  England  lacked,  and  he  felt  that  he  could  add  to  the 
sum  of  happiness  by  stimulating  his  fellow-men  to  find  in  true 
culture  a  nobler  ideal  for  their  lives.  Like  other  prophets  and 
seers,  he  was  misunderstood  and  cordially  disliked  by  the  very 
classes  whom  he  wished  to  help.  In  1849,  while  the  world  was 
in  a  state  of  ferment  and  revolution,  he  read  Homer  from  begin- 
ning to  end.  He  also  published  "The  Strayed  Reveller  and 
Other  Poems,"  in  an  edition  of  five  hundred  copies,  the  title- 
page  having  only  the  initial  A.  as  indication  of  the  authorship. 
It  was  withdrawn  from  circulation  before  many  copies  were 
sold;  but  all  the  poems  it  contained,  with  one  exception,  were 
afterwards  reprinted. 

In  1 85 1  he  found  himself  withdrawing  more  and  more  from 
society,  despising  modern  literature,  which  he  declared  was 
"  only  what  has  been  before  and  what  will  be  again  and  not 
bracing  or  edifying  in  the  least."  For  months  he  did  not  look 
at  a  newspaper. 

But  this  same  year  he  was  appointed  to  an  Inspectorship  of 
Schools  and  married  Frances  Lucy,  daughter  of  Mr.  Justice 
Wightman.  For  him  he  often  acted  in  the  capacity  of  Marshal 
on  the  Circuits.  This  gave  him  an  opportunity  of  seeing  some 
of  the  most  delightful  parts  of  England,  together  with  the  most 
satisfying  companionship. 

The  duties  of  his  school-inspecting  kept  him  constantly  on 
the  move.  He  found  the  work  very  oppressive,  but  his  sense 
of  duty  was  such  that  he  never  allowed  the  feeling  to  get  too 
strong.  His  wife  frequently  accompanied  him,  and  that  was 
"  the  only  thing  that  made  this  life  anything  but  positive  pur- 
gatory." 

Such  work  was  necessary,  but,  in  view  of  Matthew  Arnold's 
genius  and  his  peculiarly  lofty  qualifications  for  statesmanship 
and  the  higher  realms  of  literature,  it  makes  one's  heart  bleed 
to  read  of  his  long  years  of  comparatively  unremunerative  drudg- 
ery, of  his  having  to  apply  that  unrivalled  mind  to  the  pettiness 
of  examining  an  average  of  sixty  or  more  schoolboy  composi- 
tions a  day,   of  his  "  being  driven   furious  by  seven  hundred 


BIOGRAPHICAL   INTRODUCTION.  XI 

closely  written  grammar-papers  to  be  looked  over "  when  he 
was  desirous  of  doing  better  things.  Oftentimes  he  mentions, 
though  without  complaint,  the  necessity  of  examining  scores  of 
pupil-teachers  in  small  and  inconvenient  rooms  and  going  with- 
out proper  food.  Pheidias  may  make  good  sandals,  but  to  keep 
him  at  it  would  be  a  loss  to  sculpture. 

But  all  the  pleasanter  were  his  vacations,  which  gave  him  time 
for  employments  that  he  liked,  for  writing  his  poems,  perhaps 
taking  a  few  weeks'  run  upon  the  Continent,  where  always,  if 
possible,  he  sought  regions  abounding  in  clear  waters.  He  pub- 
lished in  1852  (semi-anonymously,  as  before)  "  Empedocles  on 
Etna,"  but  withdrew  it  from  circulation  ere  fifty  copies  were 
sold;  the  following  year  the  first  series  of  his  "Poems"  ap- 
peared, with  a  preface  of  considerable  length.  The  volume  con- 
tained nine  new  titles,  among  them  "  Sohrab  and  Rustum  "  and 
"The  Scholar  Gypsy."  In  1854  it  went  into  a  second  edition 
with  some  changes.  In  1855  the  "second  series"  of  his  "Poems" 
appeared. 

In  1856  he  wrote  his  mother  of  his  delight  at  being  elected 
to  the  Athenaeum  Club,  and  of  looking  forward  with  rapture  to 
the  use  of  that  Library  when  he  should  be  in  London.  He 
found  it  a  place  at  which  he  "  enjoyed  something  like  beatitude." 
The  following  year  he  was  made  Professor  of  Poetry  at  Oxford. 
His  first  lecture  was  on  the  Modern  Element  in  Literature.  He 
afterwards  wrote  that  he  almost  always  had  a  very  fair  attend- 
ance. "To  be  sure,  it  is  chiefly  composed  of  ladies,"  he  adds, 
but  he  reconciled  himself  by  thinking,  as  he  composed  his 
lectures,  '  of  the  public  who  would  read  him,  not  of  the  dry 
bones  who  would  hear  him.' 

He  wrote  this  year  his  tragedy  of  "  Merope,"  as  he  said,  '  to 
inaugurate  his  professorship  with  dignity  rather  than  to  move 
deeply  the  present  race  of  humans.'  He  tried  to  give  it  "  a 
character  of  Fixity,  that  true  sign  of  the  law."  It  was  pub- 
lished and  had  a  fair  success,  though  he  complained  that  the 
British  public  found  it  hard  to  understand  his  attempted  repro- 
duction of  the  power,  grandeur,  and  dignity  of  the  Greek  imagi- 
nation. He  wrote  a  friend  that  the  poem  was  reviewed  "  very 
expostulatingly." 

He  would  have  liked  to  devote  his  whole  life  to  poetry,  as 
Wordsworth,  Byron,  and  Shelley  were  able  to  do.  But  he  found 
it  no  light  matter  to  produce  his  best  —  all  that  was  in  him  — 
with  such  a  "  hampered  existence."  He  felt  and  resisted  the 
temptation  to  transfer  his  poetic  operations  "  to  a  region  where 


Xll  BIOGRAPHICAL   INTRODUCTION. 

form  was  everything."  It  was  effort,  it  was  a  tearing  of  himself 
to  pieces  to  do  his  best  "to  attain  or  approach  perfection  in  the 
region  of  thought  and  to  unite  this  with  perfection  of  form." 
He  found  the  exhaustion  of  the  best  poetical  production,  coupled 
with  the  claims  of  his  serious  work,  a  tremendous  strain.  Goethe, 
he  reminded  himself,  was  likewise  hampered  by  "the  endless 
matters  "  that  claimed  his  attention.  Indeed,  all  poets  have 
found  fault  with  their  environment :  one  with  his  professorship, 
another  with  his  lectures,  another  with  his  very  idleness.  The 
birds  may  very  likely  say  that  if  it  were  not  for  the  atmosphere 
they  could  fly  to  the  stars ! 

But  Matthew  Arnold  was  not  a  complaining  man.  As  the 
editor  of  his  letters  says:  "  Self-denial  was  the  law  of  his  life,  yet 
the  word  never  crossed  his  lips."  What  a  lovely  record  that, 
while  always  working  beyond  the  limits  of  his  strength,  "  he 
never  by  a  word  or  a  sign  betrayed  a  consciousness  of  the  dull 
indifference  to  his  gifts  and  services  which  stirred  the  fruitless 
indignation  of  his  friends." 

His  capacity  for  work  was  extraordinary.  Occasionally  in  his 
letters  he  hints  at  the  demands  upon  him.  We  catch  glimpses 
of  him  examining  half  a  dozen  schools  in  a  day,  looking  over 
scores  of  examination  papers,  putting  his  hand  to  the  stores  of 
his  well-ordered  mind  to  write  reviews  or  essays  for  magazines, 
preparing  his  Oxford  lectures;  yet  never,  amid  all  the  rush  of 
his  busy  existence,  did  he  neglect  the  claims  of  his  dearly  beloved 
family,  his  mother,  or  his  sister,  or  (if  he  happened  to  be  away 
from  home)  his  wife :  writing  them  the  fullest,  sweetest,  hap- 
piest letters,  giving  himself  in  them  as  a  child  gives  the  typical 
cup  of  cold  water  to  a  thirsty  traveller. 

In  1858  he  took  a  house  in  London,  in  Chester  Square,  and, 
for  the  first  time  in  the  seven  years  after  his  marriage,  settled 
down  to  live. 

The  following  year  he  was  sent  abroad  as  Foreign  Assistant 
Commissioner  to  report  on  the  Systems  of  Continental  Educa- 
tion. This  enabled  him  not  only  to  see  the  inner  life  of  France 
and  other  countries,  but  also  to  travel  in  a  leisurely  and  satis- 
factory way.  He  was  fond  of  beautiful  Nature,  and  his  prose 
descriptions  of  scenery  have  a  genuinely  poetic  touch. 

On  his  return  he  embodied  some  of  his  foreign  experiences 
in  a  pamphlet  entitled  "  England  and  the  Italian  Question." 
He  felt  that  he  had  inherited  from  his  father  his  pamphleteering 
talent.  "  Even  the  positive  style  of  statement,"  he  said,  "  I 
inherit." 


BIOGRAPHICAL  INTRODUCTION.  XI 11 

At  this  time  he  joined  the  Queen's  Westminster  Rifle  Volun- 
teers and  greatly  enjoyed  the  drilling  which  he  felt  "  braces 
one's  muscles  and  does  one  a  world  of  good." 

He  was  always  fond  of  sport  with  gun  and  rod :  he  keenly 
enjoyed  shooting  grouse  on  a  Scotch  moor  or  pulling  in  a  two- 
pound  trout  from  a  clear  sparkling  mountain  stream.  His  first 
salmon  was  a  matter  of  chronicle. 

Before  he  had  reached  the  age  of  forty  he  had  recognized  his 
special  function,  already  early  indicated :  it  was  to  tame  "  the 
wild  beast  of  Philistinism,"  using  literature  as  his  method.  "  I 
have  always  the  risk  before  me,"  he  said,  "  of  being  torn  to 
pieces  by  him  and,  even  if  I  succeed  to  the  utmost,  of  dying  in 
a  ditch  or  a  workhouse  at  the  end  of  it  all."  He  hated  with 
a  royal  hatred  what  he  called  "  the  vulgarity,  the  meddlesome- 
ness, and  the  grossness  of  the  British  multitude."  They  were 
"  Philistines  ";  but  the  Aristocracy,  so  blinded  in  their  confirmed 
conservatism,  were  "Barbarians."  And  the  epithets  became 
by-words. 

Yet,  in  spite  of  his  severe  criticism  on  men,  manners,  and 
morals,  he  early  determined,  and  he  never  failed,  "  to  be  scrupu- 
lously polite  in  print,"  and  though  he  was  equally  determined 
to  say  imperturbably  what  he  thought  and  to  make  a  great 
many  people  uncomfortable,  yet  he  saw  that  the  great  thing 
was  "  to  speak  without  a  particle  of  vice,  malice,  or  rancor." 
Time,  study,  and  nature  taught  him  "  the  precious  truth  "  that 
everything  turns  on  the  way  one  exercises  the  power  of  persua- 
sion and  charm,  and  that  without  it,  all  fury,  energy,  reasoning 
power,  and  acquirement  were  thrown  away  and  rendered  their 
owner  more  miserable.  "  Even  in  one's  ridicule,"  he  said,  "  one 
must  preserve  a  sweetness  and  good  humor." 

Perfectly  sweet-tempered  himself,  he  dissociated  personality 
from  criticism,  and  while  respecting  authors  he  was  often  relent- 
less in  his  judgment  of  their  works.  This  severity  he  applied 
to  Thackeray  and  Ruskin,  to  Tennyson  and  Coventry  Patmore, 
to  Swinburne  and  Mrs.  Browning.  His  favorites,  after  the 
Greek  poets,  were  Wordsworth  and  Goethe. 

He  expressed  frankly  his  own  feelings  under  criticism :  at 
first  he  felt  annoyed;  then  he  cheered  himself  by  remembering 
how,  within  a  few  days,  the  effect  of  it  upon  him  would  have 
wholly  passed,  and  then  he  would  begin  to  think  of  the  openings 
which  he  might  find  to  answer  back,  and  so  he  quickly  recovered 
his  gayety  and  good  spirits  and  was  enabled  to  look  on  the  article 
as  "  simply  an  object  of  interest  "  to  him. 


XIV  BIOGRAPHICAL   INTRODUCTION. 

Under  all  his  serious  views  of  life  and  the  deep  sense  of 
responsibility  which  he  felt  over  his  task  of  inoculating  the 
British  public  with  intelligence,  there  was  hidden  largely  from 
common  sight  but  well  known  to  his  family  and  friends  a  fund 
of  brightness,  of  radiant  wit,  of  frank,  boyish,  totally  inoffen- 
sive self-satisfaction.  He  liked  sympathetic  appreciation,  espe- 
cially of  his  poetry.  One  feels  nearer  to  his  humanity  when  one 
reads  in  a  letter  to  his  mother  how  he  walked  up  Regent  Street 
behind  a  man  with  a  board  on  his  back  announcing  his  article 
on  Marcus  Aurelius.  Such  hearty  acknowledgment  of  what 
many  men  would  hypocritically  pretend  to  ignore  makes  us  love 
him.  That  it  was  not  conceit  is  shown  by  many  fearless  pas- 
sages in  his  home  letters  :  "  to  be  less  personal  in  one's  desires 
and  workings  is  the  great  matter  ...  for  progress  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  '  seeketh  not  her  own '  there  is  always  room." 

Severely  as  he  attacked  the  faults  of  England,  he  loved  her 
fondly,  and  it  was  no  idle  echo  of  Gilbert's  Admiral  when  he 
declared  that  he  would  be  "  sorry  to  be  a  Frenchman,  German, 
or  American  or  anything  but  an  Englishman."  His  respect  for 
America  rose  higher  after  the  tragic  ending  of  the  War  of  the 
Rebellion.  He  was  at  first  inclined  to  sympathize  with  the  South, 
not  because  he  sympathized  with  slavery,  but  because,  judging 
of  the  North  from  the  utterances  of  compromise-seeking  politi- 
cians, he  drew  the  erroneous  conclusion  that  the  North  had  little 
character.  He  was  by  nature  an  aristocrat  in  the  best  sense  of 
the  word  and  believed  in  centralization  and  concentration  of 
government.  It  was  characteristic  of  him  that  he  found  a  dra- 
matic interest  in  the  assassination  of  Lincoln,  by  reason  of  the 
fact  that  the  assassin  shouted  in  Latin  as  he  leapt  on  the  stage. 

In  l86l  he  published  three  of  his  Oxford  lectures,  under  the 
title,  "On  Translating  Homer,"  in  which  he  severely  criticised 
various  versions,  —  Chapman's,  Pope's,  Maginn's,  Newman's, 
Wright's,  — and  showed  how  they  failed  —  in  rapidity,  in  plain- 
ness, directness,  and  simplicity  of  style  and  of  ideas,  or  in  noble- 
ness of  diction.  He  himself  gave  a  few  examples  of  what,  in 
his  opinion,  should  be  the  method  of  the  translator :  he  chose 
the  hexameter  as  best  reproducing  the  qualities  of  Homeric 
verse,  and  he  conclusively  showed  that  if  he  had  proceeded  to 
translate  the  whole,  it  would  have  approached  very  near  the 
highest  possible  ideal.  But  he  left  only  a  few  fragments.  I  lis 
lectures  gave  rise  to  some  controversy,  and  the  following  year 
he  issued  a  fourth  essay,  entitled  "  Lost  Words  on  Translating 
Homer,"  in  which  he  good-humoredly  replied  to  his  critics. 


BIOGRAPHICAL   INTRODUCTION.  XV 

In  April,  1865,  he  was  sent  abroad  for  eight  months  to  make 
further  reports  on  the  Continental  Schools.  He  did  not  like  the 
Italians  and  believed  them  incapable  of  self-government.  He 
thought  them  "  no  more  civilized  by  their  refinement  alone  than 
the  English  by  their  energy  alone." 

Matthew  Arnold  was  a  good  type  of  the  modern  prophet,  but 
his  prophecies  were  not  always  justified  by  events  :  as  he  thought 
the  new  realm  of  Italy  was  only  a  fair-weather  kingdom,  so 
he  declared  that  the  French  would  easily  defeat  the  Germans. 
What  he  saw  in  Germany  was  for  the  most  part  unattractive 
millions  inconceivably  ugly  and  speaking  a  hideous  language. 
His  dislike  for  America  and  Americans,  as  standing  for  the 
opposite  of  all  his  ideals,  almost  reached  contempt.  He  him- 
self denied  that  he  had  contempt  for  unintellectual  people.  But 
his  expressions  made  people  think  so.  He  once  wrote  to  his 
wife  :  "  I  am  much  struck  with  the  utter  unfitness  of  women 
for  teachers  or  lecturers."  These  prejudices,  which  have  to  be 
taken  into  consideration,  for  the  world  judged  him  by  them, 
misjudged  him  by  them,  were  the  defects  of  his  qualities. 

They  never  influenced  his  warmth  of  heart,  his  loyal  affection 
for  friends  of  every  race,  whether  Italians,  Germans,  or  Ameri- 
cans !  Few,  except  his  intimates,  knew  how  constantly  he  went 
about  doing  good  :  looking  after  the  interests  of  employes  and 
school  teachers.  Once  it  was  his  duty  as  inspector  sharply  to 
criticise  a  certain  school :  the  school-master,  nevertheless,  re- 
marked of  him  that  he  was  "  always  gentle  and  patient  with  the 
children." 

His  tenderness  to  his  own  children,  his  thought  for  their  com- 
fort, his  beautiful  affection  for  his  dear  old  mother,  to  whom  he 
wrote  long  letters  no  matter  how  busy  he  was,  find  in  his  letters 
their  unaffected  affecting  record.  Once  he  expresses  his  delight 
at  receiving  a  box  of  Manila  cheroots,  not  for  himself,  for  he  did 
not  smoke,  but  to  send  to  his  brother,  "dear  old  Tom,"  who 
had  too  few  creature  comforts.  He  tells  his  mother  his  daily 
occupations:  — 

Writing  letters  before  breakfast,  working  at  his  Club  or  at  the 
rooms  of  the  School  Society  six  or  seven  hours,  then  at  home 
till  midnight,  with  perhaps  an  hour's  recreation  —  botanizing  in 
summer,  skating  in  winter  —  every  moment  full.  It  was  his 
ambition  to  use  the  years  from  forty  till  fifty  with  poetry,  but  he 
did  not  escape  the  fatal  drudgery. 

This  year  appeared  his  "  Essays  in  Criticism,"  eight  of  the 
nine  being  articles  reprinted  from  various  reviews.    These  calm, 


xvi  BIOGRAPHICAL   INTRODUCTION. 

serene,  impartial  studies  in  the  highest  regions  of  philosophic 
and  literary  thought  immediately  placed  Matthew  Arnold  on  a 
level  with  Goethe  in  Germany,  with  Saint-Beuve,  Taine,  and 
Scherer  in  France.  There  had  been  English  critics  before,  but 
in  his  own  field  Matthew  Arnold  stood  alone  and  unapproached. 

In  1866  he  applied  for  a  vacant  charity  commissionership 
which  would  have  brought  him  in  ^300  more  salary,  but  it  was 
given  to  a  lawyer,  as  he  supposed  it  would  be. 

In  1867  he  applied  for  the  librarianship  of  the  House  of 
Commons,  not  really  caring  much  for  it,  as  the  residence  no 
longer  went  with  it,  but  for  his  wife's  sake.  He  disliked  to  ask 
for  it,  but  was  almost  reconciled  to  the  disagreeableness  by  the 
great  kindness  shown  him.  He  failed  to  get  it.  This  same 
year  his  "  New  Poems  "  appeared  :  they  were  all  "  new  "  except 
seven,  which,  at  the  earnest  solicitation  of  Robert  Browning,  he 
reprinted  from  "  Empedocles  on  Etna."  One  thousand  copies 
were  quickly  sold.  He  brought  out,  also,  his  remarks  on  the 
Study  of  Celtic  Literature :  they  were  the  substance  of  four 
lectures  delivered  at  Oxford;  for  the  first  time  English  readers 
were  made  to  see  what  a  deep  and  lofty  influence  the  hitherto 
despised  Celt  had  exercised  in  helping  to  develop  the  most 
poetic  elements  of  their  literature. 

Early  in  186S  his  "  dear,  dear  little  man,"  his  youngest  son, 
Basil,  died;  he  himself  fell  at  a  railway  station  and  was  seriously 
injured.  He  moved  to  Harrow,  where  he  took  a  comfortable 
house  with  ample  grounds.  Here,  in  November,  his  oldest  son, 
Thomas,  died  at  the  age  of  sixteen.  Deeply  as  he  felt  the  loss 
of  these  dear  ones,  and  of  his  brother  William,  and  of  his  wife's 
father  in  the  preceding  years,  his  trust  that  all  was  well  was 
unbroken.  Bereavements  and  disappointments  serve  only  to 
strengthen  the  really  noble.  In  spite  of  growing  older  he  felt 
no  older,  and  he  attributed  his  youtli fulness  of  feelings  to  his 
"  going  on  reading  and  thinking."  At  this  time  he  had  been 
seeing  a  good  deal  of  high  society  at  Aston  Clinton,  where  the 
Rothschilds  lived.  He  was  very  fond  of  Sir  Anthony  and  Lady 
Rothschild,  and  he  confessed  that  he  "liked  these  occasional 
appearances  in  the  world,  —  No,"  he  adds,  "I  do  not  like 
them,  but  they  do  one  good  and  one  learns  something  from 
them;  but,  as  a  general  rule,  I  agree  with  all  the  men  of  soul 
from  Pythagoras  to  Byron  in  thinking  that  this  type  of  society 
is  the  most  drying,  wasting,  depressing,  and  fatal  thing  possible." 

In  1869  he  published  his  Essay  in  Political  and  Social  Criti- 
cism entitled  "Culture    and   Anarchy,"    which   had   previously 


BIOGRAPHICAL  INTRODUCTION.  xvii 

appeared  in  successive  numbers  of  the  Cornhill  Magazine,  and 
which  attracted  great  attention,  especially  through  his  applica- 
tion of  the  phrase  "  Sweetness  and  Light."  He  was  always  most 
pleased  when  commendation  of  his  works  took  this  form :  "  the 
ideas  of  it  are  exactly  what  papa  would  have  approved."  This 
same  year  he  was  asked  by  the  Italian  Government  to  take 
charge  of  the  young  Duke  of  Genoa,  Prince  Thomas  of  Savoy, 
who  was  to  study  at  Harrow,  and  the  project  greatly  pleased 
him  because  of  the  Continental  connection  which  it  gave  him. 
He  found  the  Prince  "a  dear  boy"  and  grew  very  fond  of  him. 
He  stayed  with  the  Arnolds  until  April,  1871,  and  then  the 
King  gave  Matthew  Arnold  the  Order  of  Commander  of  the 
Crown  of  Italy  as  a  token  of  his  good  will. 

His  collected  Poems  came  out  in  two  pretty  volumes.  He 
says  of  them  that  they  represent,  on  the  whole,  the  main  move- 
ment of  mind  of  the  preceding  quarter-century.  He  thought 
that  it  might  be  fairly  urged  against  them  that  he  had  less 
poetical  sentiment  than  Tennyson  and  less  intellectual  vigor 
and  abundance  than  Browning.  But  he  thought  that,  as  he 
had  "  more  of  a  fusion  of  the  two  than  either  of  them  and  had 
more  regularly  applied  that  fusion  to  the  main  line  of  modern 
development,"  he  was  likely  to  have  his  turn  as  they  had  theirs. 
He  had  practically  ceased  his  career  as  a  productive  poet  as 
early  as  1869;  between  that  date  and  his  death  scarcely  more 
than  half  a  dozen  titles  are  added  to  the  succeeding  editions  of 
his  works.  More  and  more  he  contented  himself  with  his  spe- 
cial function  as  censor  of  public  morals,  as  lay  preacher  to  an 
obdurate  generation.  He  felt  that  this  was  his  life  work,  and 
so  sacrificed  his  predilections  to  his  lofty  sense  of  duty. 

He  was  at  this  time  considering  the  prospect  of  one  of  the 
three  commissionerships  under  "  the  Endowed  Schools  Act," 
but  Gladstone  blocked  his  way,  and  he  was  not  sorry,  because  it 
would  have  substituted  administrative  for  literary  work  :  litera- 
ture being,  as  he  felt,  his  true  business.  He  was  greatly  pleased 
the  following  year  by  being  made  Doctor  of  Civil  Law  at  Oxford. 
He  had  doubted  if  he  should  ever  have  that  distinction,  not 
having  won  high  honors  while  there.  "  The  position  of  a  man 
of  letters,"  he  said,  "  is  uncertain,  and  more  uncertain  in  the 
eyes  of  his  own  University  than  anywhere  else."  When  he  went 
up  to  receive  it,  Lord  Salisbury,  the  Chancellor,  told  him  that 
some  one, suggested  to  him  to  address  him  as  vir  dulcissime  et 
lacidissime,  so  much  had  his  favorite  expression  "  Sweetness  and 
Light"  impressed  people. 


XVlii         BIOGRAPHICAL   INTRODUCTION. 

He  was  shortly  afterwards  invited  with  his  wife  to  go,  in  com- 
pany with  Tennyson,  in  the  Royal  Society's  expedition  to  see 
the  eclipse  from  Etna.  But  he  was  unable  to  accept  the  tempt- 
ing offer. 

He  lets  a  little  light  in  on  his  literary  profits  when  he  tells 
his  mother  of  an  amusing  interview  he  had  in  December,  1870, 
with  the  Tax  Commissioner  who  had  assessed  his  profits  at 
,£1000  a  year,  on  the  ground  that  he  was  a  most  distinguished 
literary  man,  his  works  mentioned  everywhere.  Matthew  Arnold 
said:  "You  see  before  you,  gentlemen,  what  you  have  often 
heard  of,  an  unpopular  author."  Whereupon  the  assessment 
was  cut  down  to  ^200  a  year. 

In  February,  1872,  Matthew  Arnold's  second  son,  Trevenen 
William,  a  youth  of  great  promise  and  universally  beloved,  died 
quite  suddenly  at  the  age  of  eighteen.  It  was  a  great  blow  to 
his  parents,  but  Matthew  Arnold's  beautiful  faith  enabled  him 
to  write : 

But  him  on  whom,  in  the  prime 

Of  life,  with  vigor  undimmed, 

With  unspent  mind,  and  a  soul 

Unworn,  undebased,  undecayed, 

Mournfully  grating,  the  gates 

Of  the  city  of  death  have  forever  closed, — 

Him,  I  count  him,  well-starred. 

In  1873  the  Arnolds,  after  having  enjoyed  a  trip  to  Italy,  left 
Harrow  and  took  a  house  at  Pain's  Hill,  near  Cobham  in  Sur- 
rey: this  was  his  home  for  the  rest  of  his  life.  In  September 
his  mother,  Mrs.  Thomas  Arnold  of  Fox  How,  died  at  the  age 
of  eighty-two.  Matthew  Arnold  said  of  her  that  she  had  "  a 
clearness  and  fairness  of  mind,  an  interest  in  things  and  a 
power  of  appreciating  what  might  not  be  in  her  own  line, 
which  were  very  remarkable  and  which  remained  with  her  to 
the  very  end  of  her  life."  Her  character  seems  to  show  in  the 
very  letters  which  Matthew  Arnold  sent  her.  Her  appreciation 
of  her  son's  work  was  very  dear  to  him :  even  his  "  Literature 
and  Dogma,"  which  went  through  four  editions  that  year,  was 
not  too  strong  for  her  advanced  thinking. 

In  1877  he  was  invited  to  stand  for  the  Chair  of  Toetry  at 
Oxford  a  second  time;  but  he  declined,  partly  so  as  to  give 
younger  men  a  chance,  partly  because  he  dreaded  "  the  religious 
row"  which  he  knew  would  ensue.  He  also  declined  to  accept 
the  Lord  Rectorship  of  St.  Andrews. 


BIOGRAPHICAL   INTRODUCTION.  XIX 

In  1882  he  announced  his  intention  of  retiring  from  his  office 
as  one  of  her  majesty's  Lay  Inspectors  of  Schools;  he  felt  that 
his  life  was  drawing  to  an  end,  and  as  Gladstone,  he  knew, 
would  never  promote  the  author  of  "  Literature  and  Dogma," 
he  had  "  no  wish  to  execute  the  Dance  of  Death  in  an  ele- 
mentary school." 

The  following  year  he  was  asked  to  give  a  series  of  lectures 
in  the  United  States,  and  he  also  received,  to  his  surprise,  the 
offer  of  a  pension  of  ^250  "  as  a  public  recognition  of  service  to 
the  poetry  and  literature  of  England."  But  he  was  inclined  to 
refuse  it  on  the  ground  that,  as  the  fund  available  for  such  pur- 
poses was  small,  it  would  not  look  well  if  a  man  drawing  from 
the  public  purse  nearly  ^1000  a  year  took  such  a  material  in- 
crease; but  his  friends  were  so  urgent  that  at  last  he  yielded, 
and  only  the  Echo  sneeringly  called  him  a  "  a  very  Bonaparte  " 
for  rapacity. 

Before  he  came  to  America  he  had  to  a  considerable  extent 
formed  his  judgment  of  this  country.  This  is  a  rather  dan- 
gerous but  quite  natural  way  of  doing.  It  is  easy  afterwards  to 
make  what  one  sees  confirm  the  prejudice.  As  early  as  June, 
1883,  he  wrote  to  his  friend,  the  Reverend  F.  B.  Zincke :  — 

"  You  are  very  favorable  to  the  Americans,  but  it  is  undoubt- 
edly true  that  the  owning  and  cultivating  one's  own  land  as 
they  do  is  the  wholesomest  condition  for  mankind.  And  you 
bring  out  what  is  most  important,  that  the  real  America  is  made 
up  of  families  and  owners  and  cultivators  of  this  kind.  I  hope 
this  is  true;  one  hears  so  much  of  the  cities  which  do  not  seem 
tempting,  and  of  the  tendency  of  every  American,  farmer  or 
not,  to  turn  into  a  trader,  and  a  trader  of  the  'cutest  and  hardest 
kind. 

"  I  do  not  think  the  bulk  of  the  American  nation  at  present 
gives  one  the  impression  of  being  made  up  of  fine  enough  clay 
to  serve  the  highest  purposes  of  civilization  in  the  way  you 
expect;  they  are  what  I  call  Philistines,  I  suspect,  too  many  of 
them.  But  the  condition  of  life  of  the  majority  there  is  the 
wholesome  and  good  one;  there  is  immense  hope  for  the  future 
in  that  fact." 

In  October,  after  a  stormy  but  "  splendid  "  passage,  he  landed 
in  New  York,  "  the  blatant  publicity  "  of  which  confirmed  his  worst 
fears.  But  he  soon  found  how  well  known  he  was,  and  it  modi- 
fied his  ideas  of  American  philistinism  to  have  hotel  barbers  and 
porters  reverencing  him  as  a  poet  and  asking  for  his  autograph. 
Dr.  Holmes,  whom  he  called  a  dear  little  old  man,  introduced 


XX  BIOGRAPHICAL   INTRODUCTION. 

him  to  his  Boston  audience.  He  was  most  struck  with  the 
buoyancy,  enjoyment  and  freedom  from  constraint,  the  universal 
good  nature  of  the  American  people.  He  found  much  pseudo- 
culture  :  few  men  of  note  had  ever  heard  of  Obermann,  and  as 
a  knowledge  of  Obermann  was  in  his  eyes  a  test  of  civilization, 
he  thought  our  philistinism  extremely  depressing,  all  the  more 
when  it  was  often  glossed  over  with  a  varnish  of  pretence. 
Some  individuals  even  confused  him  with  Sir  Edwin  Arnold, 
and  supposed  that  he  was  the  author  of  "Tom  Brown":  these 
confusions  naturally  disgusted  him. 

But  on  the  whole  he  grew  more  and  more  interested  in  the 
American  people,  and  his  lectures  were  a  success  from  the  start. 
His  fee  was  $150,  and,  besides  what  he  made,  he  felt  that  he 
was  learning  much.  His  delight,  in  some  of  the  chefs- iVcenv re 
of  the  American  table  was  quite  amusing.  He  was  ready  to 
hymn  a  panegyric  to  the  Yankee  Cock-tail !  He  was  delighted 
with  the  Richmond  schools  for  negroes  and  "  could  have  passed 
hours  there."  He  preferred  Philadelphia  to  Boston.  He  found 
nothing  picturesque  in  America  except  a  sledge  on  a  lake  with 
the  horses  half  turned  round. 

He  was  greatly  amused  at  the  comments  of  the  newspapers. 
A  Chicago  paper  declared  that  he  had  "  harsh  features,  super- 
cilious manners,  parted  his  hair  down  the  middle,  wore  a  single 
eye-glass  and  ill-fitting  clothes."  A  Detroit  newspaper  com- 
pared him,  as  he  stooped  now  and  then  to  look  at  his  manu- 
script, to  "  an  elderly  bird  pecking  at  grapes  on  a  trellis." 

After  his  return  from  the  United  States  he  was  sent  for  the 
third  time  to  the  Continent  to  report  on  schools,  and  was  cor- 
dially received  by  the  most  exclusive  circles.  Most  of  the  time 
he  was  in  Prussia.  His  eldest  daughter  married  a  gentleman 
in  New  York,  and  he  was  in  this  country  again  in  the  summer 
of  18S6  lecturing  and  taking  great  delight  in  "nursing"  his 
little  granddaughter.  He  thought  the  wooden  American  coun- 
try-house with  its  great  piazza  the  prettiest  villa  in  the  world. 

On  his  return  to  England  he  retired  definitely  from  his 
inspectorship,  the  Westminster  teachers  presenting  him  with 
a  handsome  jug  and  salver. 

Before  and  during  his  summer  in  America  he  had  premoni- 
tions of  heart  trouble,  —  the  same  malady  which  had  struck 
down  his  father  and  grandfather  in  active  life.  He  regarded 
death  as  a  quite  natural  event  and  did  not  look  forward  to  it 
with  dread.  In  April,  1888,  he  went  to  Liverpool,  expecting, 
on  the  day  after  his  arrival,  to  meet  his  elder  daughter  coming 


BIOGRAPHICAL   INTRODUCTION.  XXI 

from  America.  But  the  meeting  never  took  place.  An  hour 
before  the  steamship  was  due  he  started  out  in  the  best  of 
spirits  to  take  the  tram-car.  He  may  have  hurried  a  little;  he 
had  already  neglected  the  physician's  injunctions  and  exerted 
himself  in  leaping  a  low  fence  near  his  sister's  house.  He 
suddenly  fell  forward,  and  never  spoke  again.  He  died  on  the 
fifteenth  at  the  age  of  sixty-five  years  and  three  months. 

"  The  lives  and  deaths  of  the  '  pure  in  heart,'  "  he  himself  said, 
"  have  perhaps  the  privilege  of  touching  us  more  deeply  than 
those  of  others,  partly,  no  doubt,  because  with  them  the  dispro- 
portion of  suffering  to  desert  seems  so  unusually  great." 

Matthew  Arnold  was  one  of  the  great  intellectual  and  moral 
forces  of  the  century.  As  an  essayist  he  was  one  of  the  first  to 
raise  criticism  to  its  true  significance,  placing  it  on  foundations 
of  reason  and  justice,  dissociating  from  it  the  elements  of  per- 
sonality, making  it  free,  broad,  and  generous,  however  severe  it 
might  be.  And  it  was  never  destructive,  but  always  construc- 
tive, criticism;  he  never  failed  in  all  that  he  wrote  to  reiterate 
his  persuasive  assertion  of  the  superiority  of  the  intellectual  life. 
If  he  failed  at  all,  it  was  in  carrying  the  virtue  of  fastidiousness 
to  an  extreme. 

As  a  moralist,  or  perhaps  rather  as  a  lay-preacher  of  theology, 
he  took  a  position  even  more  radical  than  that  which  in  his 
father  had  so  offended  the  conservative  members  of  the  Angli- 
can Church.  He  never  wearied  of  attacking  the  narrowness  of 
the  English  dissenters  and  showing  up  the  bareness  and  unlov- 
liness  of  their  cherished  creeds.  The  great  middle  class  of 
England  which  he  termed  materialized,  and  the  lower  class 
which  he  said  was  brutalized,  cordially  detested  him  for  the 
"  artful  iteration  "  by  which  he  called  attention  to  their  foibles. 
His  Parthian  arrows,  in  the  form  of  memorable  phrases,  stuck 
in  their  armor  and  rankled.  As  they  were  tipped,  not  with 
poison,  but  with  the  wholesome  bitterness  of  reason,  they  ulti- 
mately inoculated  many  unwilling  readers  with  that  restlessness 
and  dissatisfaction  which  bring  about  a  healthier  moral  state. 
He  was  called  a  Jeremiah,  preaching  a  doctrine  of  pessimism; 
but  no  epithet  was  unfairer.  What  he  strenuously  strove  to 
communicate  to  the  great  people  which  he  loved  was  more 
abundant  life,  a  more  reasonable  faith,  a  sweeter  and  more 
luminous  view  of  God's  action  in  the  world.  As  a  theologi- 
cal writer  Matthew  Arnold's  influence  has  so  passed  into  our 
later  thought  that  he  already  seems  almost  trite,  but  that  was 
inevitable.     After  prophecy  has  been  fulfilled,   the  prophet  is 


XXli  BIOGRAPHICAL  INTRODUCTION. 

forgotten.  With  hammer  blows  he  reiterated  his  teaching  until 
he  compelled  the  heedless  to  hear.  He  had  a  noble  message 
nobly  delivered :  he  had  command  of  wit,  of  learning,  of  per- 
suasion. 

As  a  poet  his  voice  fell  silent  far  too  soon.  He  was  not  a 
lyrical  poet :  composers  would  not  select  his  verses  as  perfect 
in  rhythm  for  setting  to  music;  but  they  had  serene  depths  of 
sincerity  and  a  lucidity  of  thought  which  marked  them  out  from 
the  wordy  beauty  of  others  who  perhaps  for  the  time  enjoyed 
greater  popularity.  He  will  take  his  place  as  one  of  the  great- 
est poets  of  this  century;  beside  Wordsworth,  with  whom  he 
had  much  in  common,  to  whom  he  was  in  some  respects  —  cer- 
tainly as  regard  balance  and  symmetry  —  immeasurably  supe- 
rior. Lord  Beaconsfield  once  remarked  that  he  was  the  only 
living  Englishman  who  had  become  a  classic  in  his  lifetime. 
"Sohrab,"  "Balder  Dead,"  "Tristram  and  Iseult,"  "The  Strayed 
Reveller,"  "The  Forsaken  Merman,"  "Philomela,"  "A  Sum- 
mer Night,"  "Dover  Beach,"  or  "Rugby  Chapel"  are  not  likely 
to  be  forgotten  so  long  as  the  English  tongue  is  read.  As  a 
man,  judged  by  the  testimony  of  his  friends  and  the  sincerity 
of  his  letters,  he  was  lovable,  simple,  honest,  straightforward, 
and  kind. 

NATHAN    HASKELL   DOLE. 

Boston,  January,  1897. 


BIBLIOGRAPHY 

OF 

MATTHEW   ARNOLD'S    POETRY. 


1840.  Alaric  at  Rome.  |  A  prize  poem,  |  recited  in  Rugby 
School,  I  June  xii,  mdcccxl.  |  [Arms  of  the  School.']  \ 
Rugby :  Combe  &  Crossley.  |  mdcccxl.     8vo.     i  i  pp. 

1843.  Cromwell.  |  A  prize  poem,  |  recited  in  the  Theatre, 
Oxford,  I  June  28,  1843.  I  By  I  Matthew  Arnold,  | 
Balliol  College.  |  [Arms  of  Oxford.]  |  Oxford:  | 
Printed  and  published  by  J.  Vincent.  |  mdcccxliii. 
i2mo.     15  pp. 

1846.  Oxford  Prize  Poems.  The  edition  of  Oxford  Prize 
Poems,  dated  1846,  includes  Cromwell  (pp.  393- 
404).  It  is  not  stated  anywhere  in  the  volume  that 
the  poem  is  by  Matthew  Arnold. 

Oxford  Prize  Poems.  |  Being  |  a  Collection  |  of  such  | 
English  Poems  |  as  have  |  at  various  times  obtained 
Prizes  |  in  the  |  University  of  Oxford.  |  [Arms  of 
Oxford.]  I  Printed  for  J.  H.  Parker,  J.  Vincent,  | 
and  H.  Slatter.  |  mdcccxlvi.  Crown  8vo.  iv  +  427 
pp. 

1849.  The  I  Strayed  Reveller,  |  and  |  Other  Poems.  | 
By  A.  I  London :  |  B.  Fellowes,  Ludgate  Street.  | 
1849.     Small  Svo.     viii  +128  pp. 

1852.  Empedocles  on  Etna,  |  and  |  Other  Poems.  |  By  A.  | 
London:  |  B.  Fellowes,  Ludgate  Street.  |  1852.  Small 
8vo.     viii  +  236  pp. 


XXIV  BIBLIOGRAPHY. 

1853.  Poems.   |    By   |    Matthew  Arnold.   |   A  New  Edition.    | 

London:  |  Longman,  Brown,  Green,  and  Longmans.  | 
MDCCCLIII.  Foolscap  8vo.  xxxvi  +  248  pp.  [After- 
wards known  as  First  Series .] 

1854.  Poems.  |  Second  Edition.  |  London:  |  Longman,  Brown, 

Green,  and  Longmans.  |  MDCCCLIV.  [Preface :  v-viii 
pp.  Preface  to  Ed.  I.,  ix-xxxv.]  Five  poems  omitted  : 
Thekld's  Answer,  Richmond  Hill,  Pozver  of  Youth, 
A  Modern  Sappho,  and  Sonnet  written  in  £merson's 
Essays ;  one  poem,  A  Farewell,  added;  also  greater 
part  of  Note  to  Sohrab  and  Rnstum,  pp.  51-59. 

1S55.  Poems.  |  By  |  Matthew  Arnold.  |  Second  Series.  |  Lon- 
don :  I  Longman,  Brown,  Green,  and  Longmans.  | 
muccclv.     Foolscap  Svo.     viii  4-  210  pp. 

1857.  Poems.  |  By  |  Matthew  Arnold.  |  Third  Edition.  |  Lon- 

don :  I  Longman,  Brown,  Green,  Longmans,  &  Rob- 
erts. I  1857.  [One  new  poem  added,  To  Marguerite  ; 
the  poem  thus  named  in  two  previous  editions  under 
Switzerland  being  charged  to  Isolation.] 

1858.  Merope.  I  A  Tragedy.  |  By  |  Matthew  Arnold.  |  Lon- 

don :  I  Longman,  Brown,  Green,  Longmans,  &  Rob- 
erts. I  mdccclviii.  Foolscap  Svo.  lii  4-  138  pp. 
[Preface  dated  London:  December,  1 85 7.] 

1863.  Cromwell.  |  Second  Edition.  |  Oxford:  |  T.  &  G. 
Shrimpton,  Broad  Street.  |  mdccclxiii.  Crown  Svo. 
15  PP- 

1867.  Saint  Brandan.  |  By  |  Matthew  Arnold.  |  London:  | 

E.  W.  &  A.  Skipwith.  |  1867.  Foolscap  8vo.  11  pp. 
[Appeared  first  in  Fraser's  Magazine,  July,  1S60.] 

New  Poems  |  by  |  Matthew  Arnold.  |  London:  |  Mac- 
millan  and  Co.  |  mdccclxvii.  Foolscap  Svo.  viii  4- 
244  pp. 

1868.  New  Poems  |  by  |  Matthew  Arnold.  |  Second  Edition.  | 

London  :  |  Macmillan  and  Co.  |  MDCCCLXVIII.  Fools- 
cap Svo.  viii  4-  246  pp.  [The  last  poem,  Obertnann 
Once  More,  has  additional  stanzas  and  notes.] 

1869.  Poems  |  by  |   Matthew  Arnold.    |  The   First  Volume  | 

Narrative  and  Elegiac  Poems.  |  London :  |  Macmillan 
and  Co.  |  MDCCCLXIX.     [All  rights  reserved.]     1869. 


BIBLIOGRAPHY.  XXV 

1869.  POEMS  |  by  |  Matthew  Arnold.  |  The  Second  Volume  | 
Dramatic  and  Lyric  Poems.  |  (Etc.,  as  above.)  Crown 
Svo.  Vol.  I.,  viii  +  276  pp.;  Vol.  II.,  viii  +  267  pp. 
["  First  Collected  Edition."] 

1S77.  POEMS  |  by  |  Matthew  Arnold.  |  The  First  Volume  | 
Early  Poems,  Narrative  Poems,  |  and  Sonnets.  |  New 
and   Complete   Edition.    |   London:   |   Macmillan  and 

Co.   I  MDCCCLXXVII. 

Poems  |  by  |  Matthew  Arnold.  |  The  Second  Volume  | 
Lyric,  Dramatic,  and  Elegiac  Poems.  |  (Etc.,  as  above.) 
Crown  Svo.  Vol.  I.,  viii  +  272  pp.;  Vol.  II.,  viii  + 
312  pp. 

1878.  Selected  Poems  |  of  |  Matthew  Arnold.  |  [Illustration.]  \ 
London  :  |  Macmillan  and  Co.  |  1878.  Small  Svo. 
viii  +  235  pp.  [Golden  Treasury  Series.]  Also  large 
paper,  crown  8vo,  250  copies.  The  selection  made 
by  the  author. 

1SS1.  Geist's  Grave  |  by  [  Matthew  Arnold.  |  London  :  | 
Printed  only  for  a  few  Friends.  |  18S1.  Small  8vo. 
11  pp.  [Appeared  first  in  the  Fortnightly  Review, 
January,  1881.] 

Poems.     New  Edition. 

This  edition  of  the  Poems  agrees  in  the  main,  both 
in  contents  and  in  appearance,  with  its  immediate 
predecessor,  dated  1877.  The  following  alterations, 
however,  have  to  be  noted  :  The  date  on  the  title 
page  reads  'mdccclxxxi';  the  pagination  of  Vol.  I. 
is  viii,  278;  of  Vol.  II.,  viii,  320;  A  Tomb  among 
the  Mountains  is  omitted  ;  The  Church  of  Brou 
and  A  Dream  are  reprinted  from  earlier  volumes; 
three  new  poems  added :  New  Rome,  The  Lord's 
Messengers,  Geist's  Grave. 

1883.  The  I  Matthew  Arnold  Birthday  Book.  |  Arranged 
by  his  Daughter  |  Eleanor  Arnold.  |  With  a  Portrait.  | 
London:  |  Smith,  Elder,  &  Co.,  15  Waterloo  Place,  j 
1883.  Small  4to.  [Cabinet  photograph  of  Matthew 
Arnold  seated  with  his  dog  in  his  arms,  reproduced 
by  Woodbury  type  process  and  subscribed  in  facsimile 
Matthew  Arnold,  /8Sj.] 


Xxvi  BIBLIOGRAPHY. 

18S5.     Poems.     Library  Edition.     Three  volumes. 

Vol.  I. 
Poems  I  by  |  Matthew  Arnold.  |   Early  Poems,  Nar- 
rative Poems,  I  and  Sonnets.  |  London :  |  Macmil- 
lan  and  Co.  |  1S85. 

Vol.  II. 
Poems  I  by  |  Matthew  Arnold.  |  Lyric   and   Elegiac 
Poems.  I  London:  |  Macmillan  and  Co.  |  18S5. 

Vol.  III. 
Poems  I  by  |  Matthew  Arnold.  |  Dramatic  and  Later 
Poems.  I  London:  |  Macmillan  and  Co.  |  1SS5. 

Crown  8vo.     Vol.  I.,  x  +  272  pp.;   Vol.  II.,  x  +  256 
pp. ;   Vol.  III.,  viii  +  209  pp. 

1888.     Poems  |  by  |  Matthew  Arnold.  |  Early  Poems,  Narrative 
Poems,  I  and  Sonnets.  |  [Vol.  II.,  "  Lyric  and  Elegiac 
Poems";   Vol.  III.,  "  Dramatic  and  Later  Poems."] 
London  |  Macmillan  and  Co.  |  and  New  York.  |  1888. 

1890.  Poetical  Works  |  of  |  Matthew  Arnold.  |  London  | 

Macmillan  and  Co.  |  and  New  York.  |  1890.  [A/i 
rights  reserved.']  Crown  Svo.  xiv  +  510  pp.  Portrait 
of  author  from  photograph  by  Sarony,  New  York. 

1891.  Cromwell.   |  Third   Edition.    |  Oxford:   |  A.  Thomas 

Shrimpton  &  Son,  Broad  Street.  |  1891. 

Contributions  to  Periodical  Publications,  etc. 

Memorial  Verses.  Fraser's  Magazine,  June,  1850,  Vol.  XLL, 
No.  246,  p.  630.  Signed  "A."  Dated  April  27,  1850. 
Reprinted  in  Empedocles  on  Etna:   1852. 

Stanzas  from  the  Grande  Chartreuse.  Fraser's  Maga- 
zine, April,  1855,  Vol.  LI.,  No.  304,  pp.  437-440. 
Reprinted  in  New  Poems:    1867. 

Haworth  Churchyard.  Fraser's  Magazine,  May,  1855,  Vol. 
LI.,  No.  305,  pp.  527-530.  Signed  "A."  Dated  April, 
1855.     Reprinted  in  Poems  :    1877. 

Saint  Brandan.  Fraser's  Magazine,  July,  i860,  Vol.  LXIL, 
No.  367,  pp.  133,  134.  Reprinted  in  New  Poems  : 
1867. 


BIBLIOGRAPHY.  Xxvil 

Men  of  Genius.  The  Cornhill  Magazine,  July,  i860,  Vol.  II., 
No.  7,  p.  33.  Reprinted  in  Poems  :  1855,  under  the 
title  of  "The  Lord's  Messengers." 

A  Southern  Night.  The  Victoria  Regia  (a  volume  of  origi- 
nal contributions  in  poetry  and  prose,  edited  by  Ade- 
laide A.  Procter),  1861,  pp.  177-183.  Reprinted  in 
New  Poems:   1867. 

Thyrsis.  Macmillan 's  Magazine,  April,  1866,  Vol.  XIII.,  No. 
78,  pp.  449-454.     Reprinted  in  New  Poems  :   1S67. 

New  Rome.  The  Cornhill  Magazine,  June,  1873,  Vol.  XXVIL, 
No.  162,  p.  687.     Reprinted  in  Poems  :   1885. 

The  New  Sirens.  A  Palinode.  (With  a  Prefatory  Note.) 
Macmillan's  Magazine,  December,  1876,  Vol.  XXXV., 
No.  206,  pp.  132-138.  Previously  published  in  The 
Strayed  Reveller  :  1849.  Reprinted  in  Poems  : 
1877. 

S.  S.  "Lusitania."  (A  Sonnet.)  The  Nineteenth  Century, 
January,  1879,  Vol.  V.,  No.  23,  p.  1.  Reprinted  for  the 
first  time  in  the  present  edition. 

Geist's  Grave.  The  Fortnightly  Review,  January,  18S1,  Vol. 
XXIX.,  N.  S.,  No.  159,  pp.  1-3.  Reprinted  in  Poems: 
1881. 

Westminster  Abbey.  The  Nineteenth  Century,  January,  1882, 
Vol.  XL,  No.  59,  pp.  1-8.    Reprinted  in  Poems  :   1885. 

Poor  Matthias.  Macmillan's  Magazine,  December,  1882,  Vol. 
XLVIL,  No.  278,  pp.  81-85.  Reprinted  in  Poems: 
1885. 

Kaiser  Dead.  The  Fortnightly  Review,  July,  1887,  Vol.  XLIL, 
N.  S.,  No.  247,  pp.  1-3.  Reprinted  in  Poetical  Works  : 
1890. 

HQRATIAN  Echo.  The  Century  Guild  Hobby  Horse,  July, 
1S87,  No.  7,  pp.  81,  82.  Reprinted  in  Poetical  Works: 
1890. 


EARLY    POEMS. 


SONNETS. 


QUIET   WORK. 


One  lesson,  Nature,  let  me  learn  of  thee, 
One  lesson  which  in  every  wind  is  blown, 
One  lesson  of  two  duties  kept  at  one 
Though  the  loud  world  proclaim  their  enmity, 

Of  toil  unsevered  from  tranquillity  ; 
Of  labor,  that  in  lasting  fruit  outgrows 
Far  noisier  schemes,  accomplished  in  repose, 
Too  great  for  haste,  too  high  for  rivalry. 

Yes,  while  on  earth  a  thousand  discords  ring, 
Man's  senseless  uproar  mingling  with  his  toil, 
Still  do  thy  quiet  ministers  move  on, 

Their  glorious  tasks  in  silence  perfecting ; 
Still  working,  blaming  still  our  vain  turmoil, 
Laborers  that  shall  not  fail,  when  man  is  gone. 


SONXliTS. 


TO   A    FRIEND. 


Who  prop,  thou  ask'st,  in  these  bad  days,  my  mind? — 
He  much,  the  old  man,  who,  clearest-souled  of  men, 
Saw  The  Wide  Prospect,  and  the  Asian  Fen,1 
And  Tmolus  hill,  and  Smyrna  bay,  though  blind. 

Much  he,  wnose  friendship  I  not  long  since  won, 
That  halting  slave,  who  in  Nicopolis 
Taught  Arrian,  when  Vespasian's  brutal  son 
Cleared  Rome  of  what  most  shamed  him.     But  be  his 

My  special  thanks,  whose  even-balanced  soul, 
From  first  youth  tested  up  to  extreme  old  age, 
Business  could  not  make  dull,  nor  passion  wild ; 

Who  saw  life  steadily,  and  saw  it  whole ; 
The  mellow  glory  of  the  Attic  stage, 
Singer  of  sweet  Colonus,  and  its  child. 


SHAKSPEARE. 


Others  abide  our  question.     Thou  art  free. 
We  ask  and  ask.     Thou  smilest,  and  art  still, 
Out-topping  knowledge.     For  the  loftiest  hill, 
Who  to  the  stars  uncrowns  his  majesty, 

Planting  his  steadfast  footsteps  in  the  sea, 
Making  the  heaven  of  heavens  his  dwelling-place, 
Spares  but  the  cloudy  border  of  his  base 
To  the  foiled  searching  of  mortality; 


SONNETS. 

And  thou,  who  didst  the  stars  and  sunbeams  know, 
Self-schooled,  self-scanned,  self-honored,  self-secure, 
Didst  tread  on  earth  unguessed  at.  —  Better  so  ! 

All  pains  the  immortal  spirit  must  endure, 

All  weakness  which  impairs,  all  griefs  which  bow, 

Find  their  sole  speech  in  that  victorious  brow. 


WRITTEN   IN   EMERSON'S   ESSAYS. 

"  O  monstrous,  dead,  unprofitable  world, 
That  thou  canst  hear,  and  hearing  hold  thy  way  ! 
A  voice  oracular  hath  pealed  to-day, 
To-day  a  hero's  banner  is  unfurled  ; 

Hast  thou  no  lip  for  welcome?"  —  So  I  said. 
Man  after  man,  the  world  smiled  and  passed  by ; 
A  smile  of  wistful  incredulity, 
As  though  one  spake  of  life  unto  the  dead,  — 

Scornful,  and  strange,  and  sorrowful,  and  full 
Of  bitter  knowledge.     Yet  the  will  is  free  ; 
Strong  is  the  soul,  and  wise,  and  beautiful ; 

The  seeds  of  godlike  power  are  in  us  still  ; 
Gods  are  we,  bards,  saints,  heroes,  if  we  will  !  — 
Dumb  judges,  answer,  truth  or  mockery? 


WRITTEN    IN   BUTLER'S    SERMONS. 

Affections,  Instincts,  Principles,  and  Powers, 
Impulse  and  Reason,  Freedom  and  Control,  — 
So  men,  unravelling  God's  harmonious  whole, 
Rend  in  a  thousand  shreds  this  life  of  ours. 


4  SONNETS. 

Vain  labor  !     Deep  and  broad,  where  none  may  see, 
Spring  the  foundations  of  that  shadowy  throne 
Where  man's  one  nature,  queendike,  sits  alone, 
Centred  in  a  majestic  unity  ; 

And  rays  her  powers,  like  sisterdslands  seen 

Linking  their  coral  arms  under  the  sea, 

Or  clustered  peaks  with  plunging  gulfs  between, 

Spanned  by  aerial  arches  all  of  gold, 
Whereo'er  the  chariot-wheels  of  life  are  rolled 
In  cloudy  circles  to  eternity. 


TO   THE   DUKE   OF   WELLINGTON. 
ON   HEARING   HIM   MISPRAISED. 

Because  thou  hast  believed,  the  wheels  of  life 
Stand  never  idle,  but  go  always  round  ; 
Not  by  their  hands,  who  vex  the  patient  ground, 
Moved  only ;  but  by  genius,  in  the  strife 

Of  all  its  chafing  torrents  after  thaw, 

Urged ;  and  to  feed  whose  movement,  spinning  sand, 

The  feeble  sons  of  pleasure  set  their  hand  ; 

And,  in  this  vision  of  the  general  law, 

Hast  labored,  but  with  purpose  ;  hast  become 
Laborious,  persevering,  serious,  firm,  — 
For  this,  thy  track  across  the  fretful  foam 

Of  vehement  actions  without  scope  or  term, 
Called  history,  keeps  a  splendor ;  due  to  wit, 
Which  saw  one  clew  to  life,  and  followed  it. 


SONNETS. 

IN   HARMONY    WITH   NATURE, 
TO    A   PREACHER. 

■'  In  harmony  with  Nature?  "     Restless  fool, 
Who  with  such  heat  dost  preach  what  were  to  thee, 
When  true,  the  last  impossibility,  — 
To  be  like  Nature  strong,  like  Nature  cool  ! 

Know,  man  hath  all  which  Nature  hath,  but  more, 
And  in  that  more  lie  all  his  hopes  of  good. 
Nature  is  cruel,  man  is  sick  of  blood  ; 
Nature  is  stubborn,  man  would  fain  adore ; 

Nature  is  fickle,  man  hath  need  of  rest ; 

Nature  forgives  no  debt,  and  fears  no  grave ; 

Man  would  be  mild,  and  with  safe  conscience  blest. 

Man  must  begin,  know  this,  where  Nature  ends ; 
Nature  and  man  can  never  be  fast  friends. 
Fool,  if  thou  canst  not  pass  her,  rest  her  slave  ! 


TO   GEORGE   CRUIKSHANK. 

DN    SEEING,     IN    THE    COUNTRY,     HIS    PICTURE    OF    "THE 

BOTTLE." 

Artist,  whose  hand,  with  horror  winged,  hath  torn 
From  the  rank  life  of  towns  this  leaf !  and  flung 
The  prodigy  of  full-blown  crime  among 
Valleys  and  men  to  middle  fortune  born, 


6  SONNETS. 

Not  innocent,  indeed,  yet  not  forlorn,  — 

Say,  what  shall  calm  us  when  such  guests  intrude 

Like  comets  on  the  heavenly  solitude  ? 

Shall  breathless  glades,  cheered  by  shy  Dian's  horn, 

Cold-bubbling  springs,  or  caves?  Not  so  !  The  soul 
Breasts  her  own  griefs  ;  and,  urged  too  fiercely,  says, 
"  Why  tremble  ?     True,  the  nobleness  of  man 

May  be  by  man  effaced ;  man  can  control 

To  pain,  to  death,  the  bent  of  his  own  days. 

Know  thou  the  worst !     So  much,  not  more,  he  can." 


TO   A    REPUBLICAN   FRIEND,    184S. 

God  knows  it,  I  am  with  you.     If  to  prize 
Those  virtues,  prized  and  practised  by  too  few, 
But  prized,  but  loved,  but  eminent  in  you, 
Man's  fundamental  life  ;  if  to  despise 

The  barren  optimistic  sophistries 

Of  comfortable  moles,  whom  what  they  do 

Teaches  the  limit  of  the  just  and  true 

(And  for  such  doing  they  require  not  eyes)  ; 

If  sadness  at  the  long  heart-wasting  show 
Wherein  earth's  great  ones  are  disquieted ; 
If  thoughts,  not  idle,  while  before  me  flow 

The  armies  of  the  homeless  and  unfed,  — 
If  these  are  yours,  if  this  is  what  you  are, 
Then  am  I  yours,  and  what  you  feel,  I  share. 


SONNETS. 


CONTINUED. 


Vet,  when  I  muse  on  what  life  is,  I  seem 
Rather  to  patience  prompted,  than  that  proud 
Prospect  of  hope  which  France  proclaims  so  loud, 
France,  famed  in  all  great  arts,  in  none  supreme ; 

Seeing  this  vale,  this  earth,  whereon  we  dream, 
Is  on  all  sides  o'ershadowed  by  the  high 
Uno'erleaped  mountains  of  necessity, 
Sparing  us  narrower  margin  than  we  deem. 

Nor  will  that  day  dawn  at  a  human  nod, 
When,  bursting  through  the  network  superposed 
By  selfish  occupation,  —  plot  and  plan, 

Lust,  avarice,  envy,  —  liberated  man, 

All  difference  with  his  fellow-mortal  closed, 

Shall  be  left  standing  face  to  face  with  God. 


RELIGIOUS   ISOLATION. 
TO  THE   SAME   FRIEND. 

Children  (as  such  forgive  them)  have  I  known, 

Ever  in  their  own  eager  pastime  bent 

To  make  the  incurious  bystander,  intent 

On  his  own  swarming  thoughts,  an  interest  own,  - 

Too  fearful  or  too  fond  to  play  alone. 
Do  thou,  whom  light  in  thine  own  inmost  soul 
(Not  less  thy  boast)  illuminates,  control 
Wishes  unworthy  of  a  man  full-grown. 


8  MYCERINUS. 

What  though  the  holy  secret,  which  moulds  thee, 
Moulds  not  the  solid  earth  ?  though  never  winds 
Have  whispered  it  to  the  complaining  sea, 


Nature's  great  law,  and  law  of  all  men's  minds? 
To  its  own  impulse  every  creature  stirs  : 
Live  by  thy  light,  and  earth  will  live  by  hers ! 


MYCERINUS? 


"  Not  by  the  justice  that  my  father  spurned, 

Not  for  the  thousands  whom  my  father  slew, 

Altars  unfed  and  temples  overturned, 

Cold  hearts  and  thankless  tongues,  where  thanks  are 

due ; 
Fell  this  dread  voice  from  lips  that  cannot  lie, 
Stern  sentence  of  the  Powers  of  Destiny. 

"  I  will  unfold  my  sentence  and  my  crime. 
My  crime,  —  that,  rapt  in  reverential  awe, 
I  sate  obedient,  in  the  fiery  prime 
Of  youth,  self-governed,  at  the  feet  of  Law; 
Ennobling  this  dull  pomp,  the  life  of  kings, 
By  contemplation  of  diviner  things. 

"  My  father  loved  injustice,  and  lived  long ; 
Crowned  with  gray  hairs  he  died,  and  full  of  sway. 
I  loved  the  good  he  scorned,  and  hated  wrong  — 
The  gods  declare  my  recompense  to-day. 
I  looked  for  life  more  lasting,  rule  more  high  ; 
And  when  six  years  are  measured,  lo,  I  die  ! 


IMYCERINUS.  9 

"  Yet  surely,  O  my  people,  did  I  deem 
Man's  justice  from  the  all-just  gods  was  given  ; 
A  light  that  from  some  upper  fount  did  beam, 
Some  better  archetype,  whose  seat  was  heaven ; 
A  light  that,  shining  from  the  blest  abodes, 
Did  shadow  somewhat  of  the  life  of  gods. 

"  Mere  phantoms  of  man's  self-tormenting  heart, 
Which  on  the  sweets  that  woo  it  dares  not  feed  ! 
Vain  dreams,  which  quench  our  pleasures,  then  depart, 
When  the  duped  soul,  self-mastered,  claims  its  meed  ■ 
When,  on  the  strenuous  just  man,  Heaven  bestows, 
Crown  of  his  struggling  life,  an  unjust  close  ! 

"  Seems  it  so  light  a  thing,  then,  austere  powers, 
To  spurn  man's  common  lure,  life's  pleasant  things? 
Seems  there  no  joy  in  dances  crowned  with  flowers, 
Love  free  to  range,  and  regal  banquetings? 
♦Bend  ye  on  these  indeed  an  unmoved  eye, 
Not  gods,  but  ghosts,  in  frozen  apathy? 

"  Or  is  it  that  some  force,  too  stern,  too  strong, 
Even  for  yourselves  to  conquer  or  beguile, 
Bears  earth  and  heaven  and  men  and  gods  along, 
Like  the  broad  volume  of  the  insurgent  Nile? 
And  the  great  powers  we  serve,  themselves  may  be 
Slaves  of  a  tyrannous  necessity? 

"  Or  in  mid-heaven,  perhaps,  your  golden  cars, 
Where  earthly  voice  climbs  never,  wing  their  flight, 
And  in  wild  hunt,  through  mazy  tracts  of  stars, 
Sweep  in  the  sounding  stillness  of  the  night? 
Or  in  deaf  ease,  on  thrones  of  dazzling  sheen, 
Drinking  deep  draughts  of  joy,  ye  dwell  serene? 


IO  MYCKKINUS. 

"Oh,  wherefore  cheat  our  youth,  if  thus  it  be, 
Of  one  short  joy,  one  lust,  one  pleasant  dream  ? 
Stringing  vain  words  of  powers  we  cannot  see, 
Blind  divinations  of  a  will  supreme  ; 
Lost  labor  !  when  the  circumambient  gloom 
But  hides,  if  gods,  gods  careless  of  our  doom? 

"  The  rest  I  give  to  joy.     Even  while  I  speak, 
My  sand  runs  short ;  and  as  yon  star-shot  ray, 
Hemmed  by  two  banks  of  cloud,  peers  pale  and  weak, 
Now,  as  the  barrier  closes,  dies  away,  — 
Even  so  do  past  and  future  intertwine, 
Blotting  this  six  years'  space,  which  yet  is  mine. 

"  Six  years,  —  six  little  years,  —  six  drops  of  time  ! 
Yet  suns  shall  rise,  and  many  moons  shall  wane, 
And  old  men  die,  and  young  men  pass  their  prime, 
And  languid  pleasure  fade  and  flower  again, 
And  the  dull  gods  behold,  ere  these  are  flown, 
Revels  more  deep,  joy  keener  than  their  own. 

"  Into  the  silence  of  the  groves  and  woods 
I  will  go  forth  ;  though  something  would  I  say,  — 
Something,  —  yet  what,  I  know  not :  for  the  gods 
The  doom  they  pass  revoke  not  nor  delay  ; 
And  prayers  and  gifts  and  tears  are  fruitless  all, 
And  the  night  waxes,  and  the  shadows  fall. 

"  Ye  men  of  Egypt,  ye  have  heard  your  king  ! 

I  go,  and  I  return  not.     But  the  will 

Of  the  great  gods  is  plain  ;  and  ye  must  bring 

Bl  deeds,  ill  passions,  zealous  to  fulfil 

Their  pleasure,  to  their  feet  ;   and  reap  their  praise,  — 

The  praise  of  gods,  rich  boon  !  and  length  of  days." 


MYCERINUS.  II 

—  So  spake  he,  half  in  anger,  half  in  scorn; 

And  one  loud  cry  of  grief  and  of  amaze 

Broke  from  his  sorrowing  people ;  so  he  spake, 

And  turning,  left  them  there  :  and  with  brief  pause. 

Girt  with  a  throng  of  revellers,  bent  his  way 

To  the  cool  region  of  the  groves  he  loved. 

There  by  the  river-banks  he  wandered  on, 

From  palm-grove  on  to  palm-grove,  happy  trees, 

Their  smooth  tops  shining  sunward,  and  beneath 

Burying  their  unsunned  stems  in  grass  and  flowers ; 

Where  in  one  dream  the  feverish  time  of  youth 

Might  fade  in  slumber,  and  the  feet  of  joy 

Might  wander  all  day  long  and  never  tire. 

Here  came  the  king,  holding  high  feast,  at  morn, 

Rose-crowned ;  and  ever,  when  the  sun  went  down, 

A  hundred  lamps  beamed  in  the  tranquil  gloom, 

From  tree  to  tree  all  through  the  twinkling  grove, 

Revealing  all  the  tumult  of  the  feast,  — 

Flushed  guests,  and  golden  goblets  foamed  with  wine  ; 

While  the  deep-burnished  foliage  overhead 

Splintered  the  silver  arrows  of  the  moon. 

It  may  be  that  sometimes  his  wondering  soul 
From  the  loud  joyful  laughter  of  his  lips 
Might  shrink  half  startled,  like  a  guilty  man 
Who  wrestles  with  his  dream  ;  as  some  pale  shape, 
Gliding  half  hidden  through  the  dusky  stems, 
Would  thrust  a  hand  before  the  lifted  bowl, 
Whispering,  A  little  space,  and  thou  art  mine! 
It  may  be,  on  that  joyless  feast  his  eye 
Dwelt  with  mere  outward  seeming ;  he,  within, 
Took  measure  of  his  soul,  and  knew  its  strength, 
And  by  that  silent  knowledge,  day  by  day, 
Was  calmed,  ennobled,  comforted,  sustained. 
It  may  be  ;  but  not  less  his  brow  was  smooth, 


12  77//:'    CHURCH   OF  BROU. 

And  his  clear  laugh  fled  ringing  through  the  gloom, 

And  his  mirth  quailed  not  at  the  mild  reproof 

Sighed  out  by  winter's  sad  tranquillity  ; 

Nor,  palled  with  its  own  fulness,  ebbed  and  died 

In  the  rich  languor  of  long  summer-days; 

Nor  withered  when  the  palm-tree  plumes,  that  roofed 

With  their  mild  dark  his  grassy  banquet-hall, 

Bent  to  the  cold  winds  of  the  showerless  spring  ; 

No,  nor  grew  dark  when  autumn  brought  the  clouds. 

So  six  long  years  he  revelled,  night  and  day. 
And  when  the  mirth  waxed  loudest,  with  dull  sound 
Sometimes  from  the  grove's  centre  echoes  came, 
To  tell  his  wondering  people  of  their  king ; 
In  the  still  night,  across  the  steaming  flats, 
Mixed  with  the  murmur  of  the  moving  Nile. 


THE    CHURCH   OF  BROU. 


ftljc  Castlf. 

Down  the  Savoy  valleys  sounding, 
Echoing  round  this  castle  old, 

'Mid  the  distant  mountain-chalets 

Hark  !  what  bell  for  church  is  tolled? 

In  the  bright  October  morning 
Savoy's  Duke  had  left  his  bride 

From  the  castle,  past  the  drawbridge, 
Flowed  the  hunters'  merry  tide. 


/.     THE    CASTLE.  1 3 


>g- 


Steeds  are  neighing,  gallants  glittering 
Gay,  her  smiling  lord  to  greet, 

From  her  mullioned  chamber-casement 
Smiles  the  Duchess  Marguerite. 

From  Vienna,  by  the  Danube, 

Here  she  came,  a  bride,  in  spring. 

Now  the  autumn  crisps  the  forest ; 
Hunters  gather,  bugles  ring. 

Hounds  are  pulling,  prickers  swearing, 
Horses  fret,  and  boar-spears  glance. 

Off !  —  They  sweep  the  marshy  forests, 
Westward  on  the  side  of  France. 

Hark  !  the  game's  on  foot ;  they  scatter  ! 

Down  the  forest-ridings  lone, 
Furious,  single  horsemen  gallop. 

Hark  !  a  shout  —  a  crash  —  a  groan  ! 

Pale  and  breathless,  came  the  hunters  — 
On  the  turf  dead  lies  the  boar. 

God  !  the  duke  lies  stretched  beside  him, 
Senseless,  weltering  in  his  gore. 

In  the  dull  October  evening, 

Down  the  leaf-strewn  forest-road, 

To  the  castle,  past  the  drawbridge, 
Came  the  hunters  with  their  load. 

•  In  the  hall,  with  sconces  blazing, 
Ladies  waiting  round  her  seat, 

Clothed  in  smiles,  beneath  the  dais 
Sate  the  Duchess  Marguerite. 


14  THE    CHURCH  OF  BROU. 

Hark  !  below  the  gates  unbarring  ! 

Tramp  of  men,  and  quick  commands  ! 
"  Tis  my  lord  come  back  from  hunting  ;  " 

And  the  duchess  claps  her  hands. 

Slow  and  tired,  came  the  hunters  ; 

Stopped  in  darkness  in  the  court. 
"  Ho,  this  way,  ye  laggard  hunters  ! 

To  the  hall  !     What  sport,  what  sport  ?  " 

Slow  they  entered  with  their  master ; 

In  the  hall  they  laid  him  down. 
On  his  coat  were  leaves  and  blood-stains, 

On  his  brow  an  angry  frown. 

Dead  her  princely  youthful  husband 

Lay  before  his  youthful  wife, 
Bloody  'neath  the  flaring  sconces  — 

And  the  sight  froze  all  her  life. 

In  Vienna,  by  the  Danube, 

Kings  hold  revel,  gallants  meet. 

Gay  of  old  amid  the  gayest 
Was  the  Duchess  Marguerite. 

In  Vienna,  by  the  Danube, 

Feast  and  dance  her  youth  beguiled, 
Till  that  hour  she  never  sorrowed  ; 

But  from  then  she  never  smiled. 

'Mid  the  Savoy  mountain-valleys, 
Far  from  town  or  haunt  of  man, 

Stands  a  lonely  church,  unfinished, 
Which  the  Duchess  Maud  began. 


/.     THE    CASTLE.  1 5 

Old,  that  duchess  stern  began  it, 

In  gray  age,  with  palsied  hands ; 
But  she  died  while  it  was  building, 

And  the  church  unfinished  stands,  — 

Stands  as  erst  the  builders  left  it, 

When  she  sank  into  her  grave ; 
Mountain  greensward  paves  the  chancel, 

Harebells  flower  in  the  nave. 

'•'  In  my  castle  all  is  sorrow," 

Said  the  Duchess  Marguerite  then  : 

"  Guide  me,  some  one,  to  the  mountain  ; 
We  will  build  the  church  again." 

Sandalled  palmers,  faring  homeward, 

Austrian  knights  from  Syria  came. 
"  Austrian  wanderers  bring,  O  warders  ! 

Homage  to  your  Austrian  dame." 

From  the  gate  the  warders  answered,  — 
"  Gone,  O  knights,  is  she  you  knew  ! 

Dead  our  duke,  and  gone  his  duchess ; 
Seek  her  at  the  church  of  Brou." 

Austrian  knights  and  march-worn  palmers 
Climb  the  winding  mountain-way  ; 

Reach  the  valley,  where  the  fabric 
Rises  higher  day  by  day. 

Stones  are  sawing,  hammers  ringing ; 

On  the  work  the  bright  sun  shines ; 
In  the  Savoy  mountain-meadows, 

By  the  stream,  below  the  pines. 


ro  the  church  of  bkou. 

On  her  palfrey  white  the  duchess 

Sate,  and  watched  her  working  train,  — 

Flemish  carvers,  Lombard  gilders, 
German  masons,  smiths  from  Spain. 

Clad  in  black,  on  her  white  palfrey, 

Her  old  architect  beside,  — 
There  they  found  her  in  the  mountains, 

Morn  and  noon  and  eventide. 

There  she  sate,  and  watched  the  builders, 
Till  the  church  was  roofed  and  done  ; 

Last  of  all,  the  builders  reared  her 
In  the  nave  a  tomb  of  stone. 

On  the  tomb  two  forms  they  sculptured, 
Lifelike  in  the  marble  pale,  — 

One,  the  duke  in  helm  and  armor ; 
One,  the  duchess  in  her  veil. 

Round  the  tomb  the  carved  stone  fret-work 

Was  at  Easter-tide  put  on. 
Then  the  duchess  closed  her  labors ; 

And  she  died  at  the  St.  John. 


.1. 

Wi)t  Cljurd). 

Upon  the  glistening  leaden  roof 

Of  the  new  pile,  the  sunlight  shines; 

The  stream  goes  leaping  by. 
The  hills  are  clothed  with  pines  sun-proof; 


//.     THE    CHURCH.  1 7 

'Mid  bright  green  fields,  below  the  pines, 

Stands  the  church  on  high. 
What  church  is  this,  from  men  aloof? 
Tis  the  Church  of  Brou. 

At  sunrise,  from  their  dewy  lair 
Crossing  the  stream,  the  kine  are  seen 

Round  the  wall  to  stray,  — 
The  churchyard  wall  that  clips  the  square 
Of  open  hill-sward  fresh  and  green 

Where  last  year  they  lay. 
But  all  things  now  are  ordered  fair 
Round  the  Church  of  Brou. 

On  Sundays,  at  the  matin-chime, 
The  Alpine  peasants,  two  and  three, 

Climb  up  here  to  pray  ; 
Burghers  and  dames,  at  summer's  prime, 
Ride  out  to  church  from  Chambery, 

Dight  with  mantles  gay. 
But  else  it  is  a  lonely  time 
Round  the  Church  of  Brou. 

On  Sundays,  too,  a  priest  doth  come 
From  the  walled  town  beyond  the  pass, 

Down  the  mountain-way ; 
And  then  you  hear  the  organ's  hum, 
You  hear  the  white-robed  priest  say  mass, 

And  the  people  pray. 
But  else  the  woods  and  fields  are  dumb 
Round  the  Church  of  Brou. 

And  after  church,  when  mass  is  done, 
The  people  to  the  nave  repair 

Round  the  tomb  to  stray ; 
And  marvel  at  the  forms  of  stone, 
c 


1 8  THE    CHURCH  OF  BROU. 

And  praise  the  chiselled  broideries  rare 

Then  they  drop  away. 
The  princely  pair  are  left  alone 
In  the  Church  of  Brou. 


III. 

So  rest,  forever  rest,  O  princely  pair  ! 
In  your  high  church,  'mid  the  still  mountain-air, 
Where  horn,  and  hound,  and  vassals,  never  come. 
Only  the  blessed  saints  are  smiling  dumb 
From  the  rich  painted  windows  of  the  nave 
On  aisle,  and  transept,  and  your  marble  grave ; 
Where  thou,  young  prince,  shalt  never  more  arise 
From  the  fringed  mattress  where  thy  duchess  lies, 
On  autumn-mornings,  when  the  bugle  sounds, 
And  ride  across  the  drawbridge  with  thy  hounds 
To  hunt  the  boar  in  the  crisp  woods  till  eve  ; 
And  thou,  O  princess,  shalt  no  more  receive, 
Thou  and  thy  ladies,  in  the  hall  of  state, 
The  jaded  hunters  with  their  bloody  freight, 
Coming  benighted  to  the  castle-gate. 

So  sleep,  forever  sleep,  O  marble  pair  ! 
Or,  if  ye  wake,  let  it  be  then,  when  fair 
On  the  carved  western  front  a  flood  of  light 
Streams  from  the  setting  sun,  and  colors  bright 
Prophets,  transfigured  saints,  and  martyrs  brave, 
In  the  vast  western  window  of  the  nave; 
And  on  the  pavement  round  the  tomb  there  glints 
A  checker-work  of  glowing  sapphire-tints, 


A    MODERN  SAPPHO.  1 9 

And  amethyst,  and  ruby,  —  then  unclose 

Your  eyelids  on  the  stone  where  ye  repose, 

And  from  your  broidered  pillows  lift  your  heads, 

And  rise  upon  your  cold  white  marble  beds  ; 

And  looking  down  on  the  warm  rosy  tints 

Which  checker,  at  your  feet,  the  illumined  flints, 

Say,  What  is  this  ?  we  are  in  bliss  — forgiven  — 

Behold  the  pavement  of  the  courts  of  heaven  ! 

Or  let  it  be  on  autumn-nights,  when  rain 

Doth  rustlingly  above  your  heads  complain 

On  the  smooth  leaden  roof,  and  on  the  walls 

Shedding  her  pensive  light  at  intervals 

The  moon  through  the  clere- story  windows  shines. 

And  the  wind  washes  through  the  mountain-pines,  — 

Then,  gazing  up  'mid  the  dim  pillars  high, 

The  foliaged  marble  forest  where  ye  lie, 

Hush,  ye  will  say,  it  is  eternity  ! 

This  is  the  glimmering  verge  of  heaven,  and  these 

The  columns  of  the  heavenly  palaces. 

And  in  the  sweeping  of  the  wind  your  ear 

The  passage  of  the  angels'  wings  will  hear, 

And  on  the  lichen-crusted  leads  above 

The  rustle  of  the  eternal  rain  of  love. 


A   MODERN  SAPPHO. 

They  are  gone  —  all  is  still !     Foolish  heart,  dost  thou 
quiver? 
Nothing    stirs    on    the   lawn    but   the    quick   lilac- 
shade. 

c  2 


20  .-/     MODERN    SAPPHO. 

Far   up    shines    the    house,    and    beneath    flows    the 
river  : 
Here  lean,  my  head,  on  this  cold  balustrade  ! 

Ere  he  come,  —  ere  the  boat  by  the  shining-branched 
border 
Of   dark    elms    shoot   round,   dropping   down    the 
proud  stream,  — 
Let  me  pause,  let  me  strive,  in   myself  make  some 
order, 
Ere   their  boat-music   sound,   ere    their   broidered 
flags  gleam. 

Last  night  we  stood  earnestly  talking  together  : 

She  entered — that  moment  his  eyes  turned  from  me  ! 

Fastened  on  her  dark  hair,  and  her  wreath  of  white 
heather. 
As  yesterday  was,  so  to-morrow  will  be. 

Their  love,  let  me  know,  must  grow  strong  and  yet 
stronger, 
Their  passion  burn  more,  ere  it  ceases  to  burn. 
They  must  love  —  while   they   must  !  but  the   hearts 
that  love  longer 
Are  rare  —  ah  !  most  loves  but  flow  once,  and  return. 

I  shall  suffer  —  but  they  will  outlive  their  affection  ; 

I  shall  weep — but  their  love  will  be  cooling  ;  and  he, 
As  he  drifts  to  fatigue,  discontent,  and  dejection, 

Will  be  brought,  thou  poor  heart,  how  much  nearei 
to  thee  ! 

For  cold  is  his  eye  to  mere  beauty,  who,  breaking 
The  strong  band  which  passion  around  him  hath 
furled, 


REQUIESCAT.  21 

Disenchanted  by  habit,  and  newly  awaking, 

Looks  languidly  round  on  a  gloom-buried  world. 

Through  that  gloom  he  will  see  but  a  shadow  ap- 
pearing, 
Perceive  but  a  voice  as  I  come  to  his  side ; 

—  But   deeper   their   voice    grows,   and    nobler  their 

bearing, 
Whose  youth  in  the  fires  of  anguish  hath  died. 

So,  to  wait  !     But  what  notes  down  the  wind,  hark  ! 
are  driving? 
Tis  he  !  'tis  their  flag,  shooting  round  by  the  trees  ! 

—  Let  my  turn,  if  it  will  come,  be  swift  in  arriving  ! 
Ah  !  hope  cannot  long  lighten  torments  like  these. 

Hast  thou  yet  dealt  him,  O  life,  thy  full  measure? 

World,  have  thy  children  yet  bowed  at  his  knee? 
Hast  thou  with  myrtledeaf  crowned  him,  O  pleasure  ? 

—  Crown,  crown  him  quickly,  and  leave  him  for  me. 


REQUIESCAT. 

Strew  on  her  roses,  roses, 
And  never  a  spray  of  yew  : 

In  quiet  she  reposes  ; 

Ah  !  would  that  I  did  too  ! 

Her  mirth  the  world  required ; 

She  bathed  it  in  smiles  of  glee. 
But  her  heart  was  tired,  tired, 

And  now  they  let  her  be, 


22  YOUTH  AND    CALM. 

Her  life  was  turning,  turning, 
In  mazes  of  heat  and  sound  ; 

But  for  peace  her  soul  was  yearning. 
And  now  peace  laps  her  round. 

Her  cabined,  ample  spirit, 

It  fluttered  and  failed  for  breath ; 

To-night  it  doth  inherit 
The  vasty  hall  of  death. 


YOUTH  AND    CALM. 

'Tis  death  !  and  peace  indeed  is  here, 
And  ease  from  shame,  and  rest  from  fear 
There's  nothing  can  dismarble  now 
The  smoothness  of  that  limpid  brow. 
But  is  a  calm  like  this,  in  truth, 
The  crowning  end  of  life  and  youth  ? 
And  when  this  boon  rewards  the  dead, 
Are  all  debts  paid,  has  all  been  said  ? 
And  is  the  heart  of  youth  so  light, 
Its  step  so  firm,  its  eye  so  bright, 
Because  on  its  hot  brow  there  blows 
A  wind  of  promise  and  repose 
From  the  far  grave,  to  which  it  goes ; 
Because  it  has  the  hope  to  come, 
One  day,  to  harbor  in  the  tomb? 
Ah,  no  !  the  bliss  youth  dreams  is  one 
For  daylight,  for  the  cheerful  sun, 
For  feeling  nerves  and  living  breath  ; 
Youth  dreams  a  bliss  on  this  side  death 


A   MEMORY-PICTURE.  23 

It  dreams  a  rest,  if  not  more  deep, 

More  grateful  than  this  marble  sleep ; 

It  hears  a  voice  within  it  tell,  — 

Calm's  not  life's  crown,  though  calm  is  well 

Tis  all,  perhaps,  which  man  acquires, 

But  'tis  not  what  our  youth  desires. 


A   MEMORY-PICTURE. 

Laugh,  my  friends,  and  without  blame 
Lightly  quit  what  lightly  came  ; 
Rich  to-morrow  as  to-day, 
Spend  as  madly  as  you  may  ! 
I,  with  little  land  to  stir, 
Am  the  exacter  laborer. 

Ere  the  parting  hour  go  by, 
Quick,  thy  tablets,  Memory  ! 

Once  I  said,  "  A  face  is  gone 

If  too  hotly  mused  upon  ; 

And  our  best  impressions  are 

Those  that  do  themselves  repair." 

Many  a  face  I  so  let  flee  — 

Ah  !  —  is  faded  utterly. 

Ere  the  parting  hour  go  by, 
Quick,  thy  tablets,  Memory  ! 

Marguerite  says,  "  As  last  year  went 
So  the  coming  year'll  be  spent ; 
Some  day  next  year,  I  shall  be, 
Entering  heedless,  kissed  by  thee." 


24  A   MEMORY-PICTURE. 

Ah,  I  hope  !  yet,  once  away, 
What  may  chain  us,  who  can  say? 
Ere  the  parting  hour  go  by, 
Quick,  thy  tablets,  Memory  ! 

Paint  that  lilac  kerchief,  bound 
Her  soft  face,  her  hair  around ; 
Tied  under  the  archest  chin 
Mockery  ever  ambushed  in. 
Let  the  fluttering  fringes  streak 
All  her  pale,  sweet- rounded  cheek. 
Ere  the  parting  hour  go  by, 
Quick,  thy  tablets,  Memory  ! 

Paint  that  figure's  pliant  grace 
As  she  toward  me  leaned  her  face, 
Half  refused  and  half  resigned, 
Murmuring,  "  Art  thou  still  unkind  ?  " 
Many  a  broken  promise  then 
Was  new  made  —  to  break  again. 
Ere  the  parting  hour  go  by, 
Quick,  thy  tablets,  Memory  ! 

Paint  those  eyes,  so  blue,  so  kind, 

Eager  tell-tales  of  her  mind  ; 

Paint,  with  their  impetuous  stress 

Of  inquiring  tenderness, 

Those  frank  eyes,  where  deep  doth  be 

An  angelic  gravity. 

Ere  the  parting  hour  go  by, 
Quick,  thy  tablets,  Memory  ! 

What  !  my  friends,  these  feeble  lines 
Show,  you  say,  my  love  declines? 


THE   NEW  SIRENS.  25 

To  paint  ill  as  I  have  done, 
Proves  forgetfulness  begun? 
Time's  gay  minions,  pleased  you  see, 
Time,  your  master,  governs  me  ; 

Pleased,  you  mock  the  fruitless  cry,  — 

"  Quick,  thy  tablets,  Memory  !  " 

Ah,  too  true  !     Time's  current  strong 
Leaves  us  true  to  nothing  long. 
Yet,  if  little  stays  with  man, 
Ah,  retain  we  all  we  can  ! 
If  the  clear  impression  dies, 
Ah,  the  dim  remembrance  prize  ! 

Ere  the  parting  hour  go  by, 

Quick,  thy  tablets,  Memory  ! 


THE  NEW  SIRENS. 

In  the  cedar-shadow  sleeping, 
Where  cool  grass  and  fragrant  glooms 
Late  at  eve  had  lured  me,  creeping 
From  your  darkened  palace  rooms, — 
I,  who  in  your  train  at  morning 
Strolled  and  sang  with  joyful  mind, 
Heard,  in  slumber,  sounds  of  warning  \ 
Saw  the  hoarse  boughs  labor  in  the  wind. 

Who  are  they,  O  pensive  Graces, 
(For  I  dreamed  they  wore  your  forms) 
Who  on  shores  and  sea-washed  places 
Scoop  the  shelves  and  fret  the  storms  ? 


26  THE   X/iir  SIRENS. 

Who,  when  ships  are  that  way  tending, 
Troop  across  the  flushing  sands, 
To  all  reefs  and  narrows  wending, 
With  blown  tresses,  and  with  beckoning  hands  ? 

Yet  I  see,  the  howling  levels 
Of  the  deep  are  not  your  lair ; 
And  your  tragic-vaunted  revels 
Are  less  lonely  than  they  were. 
Like  those  kings  with  treasure  steering 
From  the  jewelled  lands  of  dawn, 
Troops,  with  gold  and  gifts,  appearing, 
Stream  all  day  through  your  enchanted  lawn. 

And  we  too,  from  upland  valleys, 
Where  some  Muse  with  half-curved  frown 
Leans  her  ear  to  your  mad  sallies 
Which  the  charmed  winds  never  drown  ; 
By  faint  music  guided,  ranging 
The  scared  glens,  we  wandered  on, 
Left  our  awful  laurels  hanging, 
And  came  heaped  with  myrtles  to  your  throne. 

From  the  dragon-wardered  fountains 
Where  the  springs  of  knowledge  are, 
From  the  watchers  on  the  mountains, 
And  the  bright  and  morning  star ; 
We  are  exiles,  we  are  falling. 
We  have  lost  them  at  your  call  — 
O  ye  false  ones,  at  your  calling 
Seeking  ceiled  chambers  and  a  palace-hall ! 

Are  the  accents  of  your  luring 
More  melodious  than  of  yore? 
Are  those  frail  forms  more  enduring 
Than  the  charms  Ulysses  bore? 


THE   NEW  SIRENS.  2"J 

That  we  sought  you  with  rejoicings, 
Till  at  evening  we  descry 
At  a  pause  of  Siren  voicings 
These  vexed  branches  and  this  howling  sky?  .  „  , 


Oh,  your  pardon  !     The  uncouthness 
Of  that  primal  age  is  gone, 
And  the  skin  of  dazzling  smoothness 
Screens  not  now  a  heart  of  stone. 
Love  has  flushed  those  cruel  faces ; 
And  those  slackened  arms  forego 
The  delight  of  death-embraces, 
And  yon  whitening  bone-mounds  do  not  grow. 

"  Ah  !  "  you  say  ;  "  the  large  appearance 
Of  man's  labor  is  but  vain, 
And  we  plead  as  stanch  adherence 
Due  to  pleasure  as  to  pain." 
Pointing  to  earth's  careworn  creatures, 
"  Come,"  you  murmur  with  a  sigh  : 
"  Ah  !  we  own  diviner  features, 
Loftier  bearing,  and  a  prouder  eye. 

"Come,"  you  say,  "the  hours  were  dreary; 
Life  without  love  does  not  fade  ; 
Vain  it  wastes,  and  we  grew  weary 
In  the  slumbrous  cedarn  shade. 
Round  our  hearts  with  long  caresses, 
With  low  sighings,  Silence  stole, 
And  her  load  of  steaming  tresses 
Weighed,  like  Ossa,  on  the  aery  soul. 


28  THE  NEW  SIRENS. 

"  Come,"  you  say,  "  the  soul  is  fainting 
Till  she  search  and  learn  her  own, 
And  the  wisdom  of  man's  painting 
Leaves  her  riddle  half  unknown. 
Come,"  you  say,  "  the  brain  is  seeking, 
While  the  princely  heart  is  dead  ; 
Yet  this  gleaned,  when  gods  were  speaking, 
Rarer  secrets  than  the  toiling  head. 

"  Come,"  you  say,  "  opinion  trembles, 
Judgment  shifts,  convictions  go  ; 
Life  dries  up,  the  heart  dissembles : 
Only,  what  we  feel,  we  know. 
Hath  your  wisdom  known  emotions  ? 
Will  it  weep  our  burning  tears? 
Hath  it  drunk  of  our  love-potions 
Crowning  moments  with  the  weight  of  years?" 

I  am  dumb.     Alas  !  too  soon  all 
Man's  grave  reasons  disappear  ! 
Yet,  I  think,  at  God's  tribunal 
Some  large  answer  you  shall  hear. 
But  for  me,  my  thoughts  are  straying 
Where  at  sunrise,  through  your  vines, 
On  these  lawns  I  saw  you  playing, 
Hanging  garlands  on  your  odorous  pines ; 

When  your  showering  locks  inwound  you, 
And  your  heavenly  eyes  shone  through  ; 
When  the  pine-boughs  yielded  round  you, 
And  your  brows  were  starred  with  dew; 
And  immortal  forms,  to  meet  you, 
Down  the  statued  alleys  came, 
And  through  golden  horns,  to  greet  you, 
Blew  such  music  as  a  god  may  frame. 


THE  NEW  SIRENS,  29 

Yes,  I  muse  !     And  if  the  dawning 
Into  daylight  never  grew, 
If  the  glistering  wings  of  morning 
On  the  dry  noon  shook  their  dew, 
If  the  fits  of  joy  were  longer, 
Or  the  day  were  sooner  done, 
Or,  perhaps,  if  hope  were  stronger, 
No  weak  nursling  of  an  earthly  sun  .  .  . 
Pluck,  pluck  cypress,  O  pale  maidens, 
Dusk  the  hall  with  yew  ! 


For  a  bound  was  set  to  meetings, 
And  the  sombre  day  dragged  on  ; 
And  the  burst  of  joyful  greetings, 
And  the  joyful  dawn,  were  gone. 
For  the  eye  grows  filled  with  gazing, 
And  on  raptures  follow  calms  ; 
And  those  warm  locks  men  were  praising 
Drooped,  unbraided,  on  your  listless  arms. 

Storms  unsmoothed  your  folded  valleys, 
And  made  all  your  cedars  frown  ; 
Leaves  were  whirling  in  the  alleys 
Which  your  lovers  wandered  down. 
—  Sitting  cheerless  in  your  bowers, 
The  hands  propping  the  sunk  head, 
Do  they  gall  you,  the  long  hours, 
And  the  hungry  thought  that  must  be  fed  ? 

Is  the  pleasure  that  is  tasted 
Patient  of  a  long  review? 


30  THE   NEW  SIRENS. 

Will  the  fire  joy  hath  wasted, 
Mused  on,  warm  the  heart  anew? 
—  Or,  are  those  old  thoughts  returning, 
Guests  the  dull  sense  never  knew, 
Stars,  set  deep,  yet  inly  burning, 
Germs,  your  untrimmed  passion  overgrew? 

Once,  like  us,  you  took  your  station, 
Watchers  for  a  purer  fire  ; 
But  you  drooped  in  expectation, 
And  you  wearied  in  desire. 
When  the  first  rose  flush  was  steeping 
All  the  frore  peak's  awful  crown, 
Shepherds  say,  they  found  you  sleeping 
In  some  windless  valley,  farther  down. 

Then  you  wept,  and  slowly  raising 
Your  dozed  eyelids,  sought  again, 
Half  in  doubt,  they  say,  and  gazing 
Sadly  back,  the  seats  of  men  ; 
Snatched  a  turbid  inspiration 
From  some  transient  earthly  sun, 
And  proclaimed  your  vain  ovation 
For  those  mimic  raptures  you  had  won.  .  . 


With  a  sad,  majestic  motion, 
With  a  stately,  slow  surprise, 
From  their  earthward-bound  devotion 
Lifting  up  your  languid  eyes  — 
Would  you  freeze  my  louder  boldness, 
Dumbly  smiling  as  you  go, 
One  faint  frown  of  distant  coldness 
Flitting  fast  acruss  each  marble  brow? 


THE   NEW  SIRENS.  3  I 

Do  I  brighten  at  your  sorrow, 
O  sweet  pleaders  ?  doth  my  lot 
Find  assurance  in  to-morrow 
Of  one  joy  which  you  have  not? 
Oh,  speak  once,  and  shame  my  sadness  ! 
Let  this  sobbing,  Phrygian  strain, 
Mocked  and  baffled  by  your  gladness, 
Mar  the  music  of  your  feasts  in  vain  ! 


Scent,  and  song,  and  light,  and  flowers  ! 
Gust  on  gust,  the  harsh  winds  blow  — 
Come,  bind  up  those  ringlet  showers  ! 
Roses  for  that  dreaming  brow  ! 
Come,  once  more  that  ancient  lightness, 
Glancing  feet,  and  eager  eyes  ! 
Let  your  broad  lamps  flash  the  brightness 
Which  the  sorrow-stricken  day  denies. 

Through  black  depths  of  serried  shadows, 
Up  cold  aisles  of  buried  glade ; 
In  the  mist  of  river-meadows 
Where  the  looming  deer  are  laid  ; 
From  your  dazzled  windows  streaming, 
From  your  humming  festal  room, 
Deep  and  far,  a  broken  gleaming 
Reels  and  shivers  on  the  ruffled  gloom. 

Where  I  stand,  the  grass  is  glowing : 
Doubtless  you  are  passing  fair  ! 
But  I  hear  the  north  wind  blowing, 
And  I  feel  the  cold  night-air. 


32  THE   MEW  SIRENS. 

Can  I  look  on  your  sweet  faces, 
And  your  proud  heads  backward  thrown, 
From  this  dusk  of  leaf-strewn  places 
With  the  dumb  woods  and  the  night  alone? 

Yet,  indeed,  this  flux  of  guesses,  — 
Mad  delight,  and  frozen  calms,  — 
Mirth  to-day,  and  vine-bound  tresses, 
And  to-morrow  —  folded  palms  ; 
Is  this  all  ?  this  balanced  measure  ? 
Could  life  run  no  happier  way? 
Joyous  at  the  height  of  pleasure, 
Passive  at  the  nadir  of  dismay? 

But,  indeed,  this  proud  possession, 
This  far-reaching,  magic  chain, 
Linking  in  a  mad  succession 
Fits  of  joy  and  fits  of  pain,  — 
Have  you  seen  it  at  the  closing? 
Have  you  tracked  its  clouded  ways? 
Can  your  eyes,  while  fools  are  dozing, 
Drop,  with  mine,  adown  life's  latter  days? 

When  a  dreary  light  is  wading 
Through  this  waste  of  sunless  greens, 
When  the  flashing  lights  are  fading 
On  the  peerless  cheek  of  queens, 
When  the  mean  shall  no  more  sorrow, 
And  the  proudest  no  more  smile  ; 
While  the  dawning  of  the  morrow 
Widens  slowly  westward  all  that  while? 

Then,  when  change  itself  is  over, 
When  the  slow  tide  sets  one  way, 
Shall  you  find  the  radiant  lover, 
Even  by  moments,  of  to-day? 


THE   NEW  SIRENS.  ^ 

The  eye  wanders,  faith  is  failing : 
Oh,  loose  hands,  and  let  it  be  ! 
Proudly,  like  a  king  bewailing, 
Oh,  let  fall  one  tear,  and  set  us  free  ! 

All  true  speech  and  large  avowal 
Which  the  jealous  soul  concedes  ; 
All  man's  heart  which  brooks  bestowal, 
All  frank  faith  which  passion  breeds,  — 
These  we  had,  and  we  gave  truly ; 
Doubt  not,  what  we  had,  we  gave  ! 
False  we  were  not,  nor  unruly ; 
Lodgers  in  the  forest  and  the  cave. 

Long  we  wandered  with  you,  feeding 
Our  rapt  souls  on  your  replies, 
In  a  wistful  silence  reading 
All  the  meaning  of  your  eyes. 
By  moss-bordered  statues  sitting, 
By  well-heads,  in  summer  days. 
But  we  turn,  our  eyes  are  flitting  — 
See,  the  white  east,  and  the  morning-rays ! 

And  you  too,  O  worshipped  Graces, 
Sylvan  gods  of  this  fair  shade  ! 
Is  there  doubt  on  divine  faces? 
Are  the  blessed  gods  dismayed? 
Can  men  worship  the  wan  features, 
The  sunk  eyes,  the  wailing  tone, 
Of  unsphered,  discrowned  creatures, 
Souls  as  little  godlike  as  their  own  ? 

Come,  loose  hands  !     The  winged  fleetness 
Of  immortal  feet  is  gone  ; 
And  your  scents  have  shed  their  sweetness. 
And  your  flowers  are  overblown. 


34 


THE    VOICE. 

And  your  jewelled  gauds  surrender 
Half  their  glories  to  the  day  ; 
Freely  did  they  flash  their  splendor, 
Freely  gave  it  —  but  it  dies  away. 

In  the  pines,  the  thrush  is  waking ; 

Lo,  yon  orient  hill  in  flames  ! 

Scores  of  true-love-knots  are  breaking 

At  divorce  which  it  proclaims. 

When  the  lamps  are  paled  at  morning, 

Heart  quits  heart,  and  hand  quits  hand. 

Cold  in  that  unlovely  dawning, 

Loveless,  rayless,  joyless,  you  shall  stand  ! 

Pluck  no  more  red  roses,  maidens, 
Leave  the  lilies  in  their  dew ; 
Pluck,  pluck  cypress,  O  pale  maidens, 
Dusk,  oh,  dusk  the  hall  with  yew  ! 
—  Shall  I  seek,  that  I  may  scorn  her, 
Her  I  loved  at  eventide? 
Shall  I  ask,  what  faded  mourner 
Stands,  at  daybreak,  weeping  by  my  side  ?  . 
Pluck,  pluck  cypress,  O  pale  maidens  ! 
Dusk  the  hall  with  yew  ! 


THE    VOICE. 


As  the  kindling  glances, 
Queen-like  and  clear, 
Which  the  bright  moon  lances 

From  her  tranquil  sphere 
At  the  sleepless  waters 
Of  a  lonely  mere, 
On  the  wild  whirling  waves,  mournfully,  mournfully, 
Shiver  and  die  ; 


THE    VOICE.  35 

As  the  tears  of  sorrow 

Mothers  have  shed  — 
Prayers  that  to-morrow 
Shall  in  vain  be  sped 
When  the  flower  they  flow  for 
Lies  frozen  and  dead  — 
Fall  on  the  throbbing  brow,  fall  on  the  burning  breast, 
Bringing  no  rest ; 

Like  bright  waves  that  fall 

With  a  lifelike  motion 
On  the  lifeless  margin  of  the  sparkling  ocean ; 
A  wild  rose  climbing  up  a  mouldering  wall ; 
A  gush  of  sunbeams  through  a  ruined  hall ; 
Strains  of  glad  music  at  a  funeral,  — 

So  sad,  and  with  so  wild  a  start 

To  this  deep-sobered  heart, 

So  anxiously  and  painfully, 

So  drearily  and  doubtfully, 
And,  oh  !  with  such  intolerable  change 

Of  thought,  such  contrast  strange, 
O  unforgotten  voice,  thy  accents  come, 
Like  wanderers  from  the  world's  extremity, 

Unto  their  ancient  home  ! 

In  vain,  all,  all  in  vain, 

They  beat  upon  mine  ear  again,  — 

Those  melancholy  tones  so  sweet  and  still ; 

Those  lute-like  tones  which  in  the  bygone  year 

Did  steal  into  mine  ear  ; 
Blew  such  a  thrilling  summons  to  my  will, 

Yet  could  not  shake  it ; 
Made  my  tost  heart  its  very  life-blood  spill, 

Yet  could  not  break  it. 


36  THE    WORLD'S    TRIUMPHS. 


YOUTH'S  AGITATIONS. 

When  I  shall  be  divorced,  some  ten  years  hence. 
From  this  poor  present  self  which  I  am  now  ; 
When  youth  has  done  its  tedious  vain  expense 
Of  passions  that  forever  ebb  and  flow  : 

Shall  I  not  joy  youth's  heats  are  left  behind, 
And  breathe  more  happy  in  an  even  clime  ? 
Ah,  no  !  for  then  I  shall  begin  to  find 
A  thousand  virtues  in  this  hated  time  ! 

Then  I  shall  wish  its  agitations  back, 
And  all  its  thwarting  currents  of  desire ; 
Then  I  shall  praise  the  heat  which  then  I  lack, 
And  call  this  hurrying  fever,  generous  fire  ; 

And  sigh  that  one  thing  only  has  been  lent 
To  youth  and  age  in  common,  —  discontent. 


THE    WORLD'S  TRIUMPHS. 

So  far  as  I  conceive  the  world's  rebuke 
To  him  addressed  who  would  recast  her  new, 
Not  from  herself  her  fame  of  strength  she  took, 
But  from  their  weakness  who  would  work  her  rue. 

"  Behold,"  she  cries,  "  so  many  rages  lulled, 
So  many  fiery  spirits  quite  cooled  down  ; 
Look  how  so  many  valors,  long  undulled, 
After  short  commerce  with  me,  fear  my  frown  ! 


STAGIRIUS.  37 

Thcu  too,  when  thou  against  my  crimes  wouldst  cry, 
Let  thy  foreboded  homage  check  thy  tongue  !  "  — 
The  world  speaks  well ;  yet  might  her  foe  reply, 
"  Are  wills  so  weak  ?  then  let  not  mine  wait  long  ! 

Hast  thou  so  rare  a  poison  ?  let  me  be 
Keener  to  slay  thee,  lest  thou  poison  me!" 


STAGIRIUS* 


Thou,  who  dost  dwell  alone  ; 
Thou,  who  dost  know  thine  own ; 
Thou,  to  whom  all  are  known 
From  the  cradle  to  the  grave,  — 

Save,  oh  !  save. 
From  the  world's  temptations, 
From  tribulations, 
From  that  fierce  anguish 
Wherein  we  languish, 
From  that  torpor  deep 
Wherein  we  lie  asleep, 
Heavy  as  death,  cold  as  the  grave, 
Save,  oh  !  save. 

When  the  soul,  growing  clearer, 

Sees  God  no  nearer  ; 
When  the  soul,  mounting  higher, 

To  God  comes  no  nigher ; 
But  the  arch-fiend  Pride 
Mounts  at  her  side, 
Foiling  her  high  emprise, 
Sealing  her  eagle  eyes, 
And,  when  she  fain  would  soar, 
Makes  idols  to  adore, 


38  STAGIRIUS. 

Changing  the  pure  emotion 
Of  her  high  devotion, 
To  a  skin-deep  sense 
Of  her  own  eloquence  ; 
Strong  to  deceive,  strong  to  enslave,  — - 
Save,  oh  !  save. 

From  the  ingrained  fashion 
Of  this  earthly  nature 
That  mars  thy  creature  ; 
From  grief  that  is  but  passion, 
From  mirth  that  is  but  feigning, 
From  tears  that  bring  no  healing, 
From  wild  and  weak  complaining, 
Thine  old  strength  revealing, 
Save,  oh  !  save. 
From  doubt,  where  all  is  double ; 
Where  wise  men  are  not  strong, 
Where  comfort  turns  to  trouble, 
Where  just  men  suffer  wrong ; 
Where  sorrow  treads  on  joy, 
Where  sweet  things  soonest  cloy, 
Where  faiths  are  built  on  dust, 
Where  love  is  half  mistrust, 
Hungry,  and  barren,  and  sharp  as  the  sea,  • 
Oh  !  set  us  free. 
Oh,  let  the  false  dream  fly, 
Where  our  sick  souls  do  lie 
Tossing  continually  ! 

Oh,  where  thy  voice  doth  come, 
Let  all  doubts  be  dumb, 
Let  all  words  be  mild, 
All  strifes  be  reconciled, 
All  pains  beguiled  ! 


HUMAN  LIFE.  39 

Light  bring  no  blindness, 
Love  no  unkindness, 
Knowledge  no  ruin, 
Fear  no  undoing  ! 
From  the  cradle  to  the  grave, 
Save,  oh  !  save. 


HUMAN  LIFE. 


What  mortal,  when  he  saw, 

Life's  voyage  done,  his  heavenly  Friend, 

Could  ever  yet  dare  tell  him  fearlessly,  — 

"  I  have  kept  uninfringed  my  nature's  law ; 

The  inly-written  chart  thou  gavest  me, 

To  guide  me,  I  have  steered  by  to  the  end  "  ? 

Ah  !  let  us  make  no  claim, 

On  life's  incognizable  sea, 

To  too  exact  a  steering  of  our  way ; 

Let  us  not  fret  and  fear  to  miss  our  aim, 

If  some  fair  coast  has  lured  us  to  make  stay, 

Or  some  friend  hailed  us  to  keep  company. 

Ay  !  we  would  each  fain  drive 

At  random,  and  not  steer  by  rule. 

Weakness  !  and  worse,  weakness  bestowed  in  vain  ! 

Winds  from  our  side  the  unsuiting  consort  rive  ; 

We  rush  by  coasts  where  we  had  lief  remain  : 

Man  cannot,  though  he  would,  live  chance's  fool. 

No  !  as  the  foaming  swath 

Of  torn-up  water,  on  the  main, 

Fails  heavily  away  with  long-drawn  roar 


40  TO   A    GIPSY  CHILD 

On  either  side  the  black  deep-furrowed  path 
Cut  by  an  onward-laboring  vessel's  prore, 
And  never  touches  the  ship-side  again  ; 

Even  so  we  leave  behind, 

As,  chartered  by  some  unknown  Powers, 

We  stem  across  the  sea  of  life  by  night, 

The  joys  which  were  not  for  our  use  designed, 

The  friends  to  whom  we  had  no  natural  right, 

The  homes  that  were  not  destined  to  be  ours. 


TO  A    GYPSY  CHILD  BY  THE   SEA- 
SHORE; 

DOUGLAS,    ISLE   OF   MAN. 

Who  taught  this  pleading  to  unpractised  eyes? 
Who  hid  such  import  in  an  infant's  gloom? 
Who  lent  thee,  child,  this  meditative  guise  ? 
Who  massed,  round  that  slight  brow,  these  clouds  of 
doom  ? 

Lo  !  sails  that  gleam  a  moment,  and  are  gone  ; 
The  swinging  waters,  and  the  clustered  pier. 
Not  idly  earth  and  ocean  labor  on, 
Nor  idly  do  these  sea-birds  hover  near. 

But  thou,  whom  superfluity  of  joy 
Wafts  not  from  thine  own  thoughts,  nor  longings  vain, 
Nor  weariness,  the  full-fed  soul's  annoy, 
Remaining  in  thy  hunger  and  in  thy  pain  ; 


BY   THE   SEA-SHORE.  4 1 

Thou,  drugging  pain  by  patience  ;  half  averse 
From  thine  own  mother's  breast,  that  .knows  not  thee  : 
With  eyes  which  sought  thine  eyes  thou  didst  con- 
verse, 
And  that  soul-searching  vision  fell  on  me. 

Glooms  that  go  deep  as  thine,  I  have  not  known ; 
Moods  of  fantastic  sadness,  nothing  worth. 
Thy  sorrow  and  thy  calmness  are  thine  own  ; 
Glooms  that  enhance  and  glorify  this  earth. 

What  mood  wears  like  complexion  to  thy  woe  ? 
His,  who  in  mountain  glens,  at  noon  of  day, 
Sits  rapt,  and  hears  the  battle  break  below? 

—  Ah  !  thine  was  not  the  shelter,  but  the  fray. 

Some  exile's,  mindful  how  the  past  was  glad? 
Some  angel's,  in  an  alien  planet  born  ? 

—  No  exile's  dream  was  ever  half  so  sad, 
Nor  any  angel's  sorrow  so  forlorn. 

Is  the  calm  thine  of  stoic  souls,  who  weigh 

Life  well,  and  find  it  wanting,  nor  deplore ; 

But  in  disdainful  silence  turn  away, 

Stand  mute,  self-centAd,  stern,  and  dream  no  more? 

Or  do  I  wait,  to  hear  some  gray-haired  king 
Unravel  all  his  many-colored  lore  ; 
Whose  mind  hath  known  all  arts  of  governing, 
Mused  much,  loved  life  a  little,  loathed  it  more? 

Down  the  pale  cheek,  long  lines  of  shadow  slope, 
Which  years,  and  curious  thought,  and  suffering  give. 

—  Thou  hast  foreknown  the  vanity  of  hope, 
Foreseen  thy  harvest,  yet  proceed'st  to  live. 


42  TO   A    GIPSY  CHILD. 

0  meek  anticipant  of  that  sure  pain 

Whose  sureness  gray-haired  scholars  hardly  learn  ! 
What  wonder  shall  time  breed,  to  swell  thy  strain  ? 
What  heavens,  what  earth,  what  suns,  shalt  thou  dis- 
cern ? 

Ere  the  long  night,  whose  stillness  brooks  no  star, 
Match  that  funereal  aspect  with  her  pall, 

1  think  thou  wilt  have  fathomed  life  too  far, 
Have  known  too  much  —  or  else  forgotten  all. 

The  Guide  of  our  dark  steps,  a  triple  veil 
Betwixt  our  senses  and  our  sorrow  keeps  ; 
Hath  sown  with  cloudless  passages  the  tale 
Of  grief,  and  eased  us  with  a  thousand  sleeps. 

Ah  !  not  the  nectarous  poppy  lovers  use, 
Not  daily  labor's  dull,  Lethaean  spring, 
Oblivion  in  lost  angels  can  infuse 
Of  the  soiled  glory,  and  the  trailing  wing ; 

And  though  thou  glean,  what  strenuous  gleaners  may, 
In  the  thronged  fields  where  winning  comes  by  strife  ; 
And  though  the  just  sun  gild,  as  mortals  pray, 
Some  reaches  of  thy  storm-vexed  stream  of  life ; 

Though   that  blank  sunshine  blind  thee ;  though  the 

cloud 
That  severed  the  world's  march  and  thine,  be  gone ; 
Though  ease  dulls  grace,  and  wisdom  be  too  proud 
To  halve  a  lodging  that  was  all  her  own,  — 

Once,  ere  thy  day  go  down,  thou  shalt  discern, 
Oh,  once,  ere  night,  in  thy  success,  thy  chain  ! 
Ere  the  long  evening  close,  thou  shalt  return, 
And  wear  this  majesty  of  grief  again. 


IN   UTRUMQUE    PAKATUS.  43 

A    QUESTION. 

TO    FAUSTA. 

Joy  comes  and  goes,  hope  ebbs  and  flows 

Like  the  wave  ; 
Change  doth  unknit  the  tranquil  strength  of  men. 
Love  lends  life  a  little  grace, 
A  few  sad  smiles  ;  and  then 
Both  are  laid  in  one  cold  place,  — 
In  the  grave. 

Dreams  dawn  and  fly,  friends  smile  and  die 

Like  spring  flowers  ; 
Our  vaunted  life  is  one  long  funeral. 
Men  dig  graves  with  bitter  tears 
For  their  dead  hopes  ;  and  all, 
Mazed  with  doubts  and  sick  with  fears, 
Count  the  hours. 

We  count  the  hours  !     These  dreams  of  ours, 

False  and  hollow, 
Do  we  go  hence,  and  find  they  are  not  dead? 
Joys  we  dimly  apprehend 
Faces  that  smiled  and  fled, 
Hopes  born  here,  and  born  to  end, 
Shall  we  follow? 


IN   UTRUMQUE   PARATUS. 

If,  in  the  silent  mind  of  One  all-pure, 

At  first  imagined  lay 
The  sacred  world  ;  and  by  procession  sure 


44  /-V    UTRUMQUE    PARATUS. 

From  those  still  deeps,  in  form  and  color  drest, 
Seasons  alternating,  and  night  and  day, 
The  long- mused  thought  to  north,  south,  east,  and  west, 
Took  then  its  all-seen  way  ; 

Oh,  waking  on  a  world  which  thus-wise  springs  ! 

Whether  it  needs  thee  count 
Betwixt  thy  waking  and  the  birth  of  things 
Ages  or  hours  —  oh,  waking  on  life's  stream  ! 
By  lonely  pureness  to  the  all-pure  fount 
(Only  by  this  thou  canst)  the  colored  dream 

Of  life  remount ! 

Thin,  thin  the  pleasant  human  noises  grow,   . 

And  faint  the  city  gleams  ; 
Rare  the  lone  pastoral  huts  —  marvel  not  thou  ! 
The  solemn  peaks  but  to  the  stars  are  known,  — 
But  to  the  stars,  and  the  cold  lunar  beams ; 
Alone  the  sun  arises,  and  alone 

Spring  the  great  streams. 

But,  if  the  wild  unfathered  mass  no  birth 

In  divine  seats  hath  known  ; 
In  the  blank,  echoing  solitude,  if  Earth, 
Rocking  her  obscure  body  to  and  fro, 
Ceases  not  from  all  time  to  heave  and  groan, 
Unfruitful  oft,  and  at  her  happiest  throe 

Forms,  what  she  forms,  alone  ; 

Oh,  seeming  sole  to  awake,  thy  sun-bathed  head 

Piercing  the  solemn  cloud 
Round  thy  still  dreaming  brother-world  outspread  ! 
O  man,  whom  Earth,  thy  long-vexed  mother,  bare 
Not  without  joy,  —  so  radiant,  so  endowed 
(Such  happy  issue  crowned  her  painful  care), — 

Be  not  too  proud  ! 


THE    WORLD   AND    THE   QUIETIST.  45 

Oh,  when  most  self-exalted  most  alone, 

Chief  dreamer,  own  thy  dream  ! 
Thy  brother-world  stirs  at  thy  feet  unknown  ; 
Who  hath  a  monarch's  hath  no  brother's  part  — 
Yet  doth  thine  inmost  soul  with  yearning  teem. 
Oh,  what  a  spasm  shakes  the  dreamer's  heait ! 
" /,  too,  but  seem" 


THE    WORLD  AND    THE    QUIETIST 

TO  CRITTAS. 

"Why,  when  the  world's  great  mind 
Hath  finally  inclined, 
Why,"  you  say,  Critias,  "be  debating  still? 
Why,  with  these  mournful  rhymes 
Learned  in  more  languid  climes, 
Blame  our  activity 
Who,  with  such  passionate  will, 
Are  what  we  mean  to  be?  " 

Critias,  long  since,  I  know 
(For  Fate  decreed  it  so), 
Long  since  the  world  hath  set  its  heart  to  live ; 
Long  since,  with  credulous  zeal 
It  turns  life's  mighty  wheel, 
Still  doth  for  laborers  send 
Who  still  their  labor  give, 
And  still  expects  an  end. 

Yet,  as  the  wheel  flies  round, 
With  no  ungrateful  sound 
Do  adverse  voices  fall  on  the  world's  ear. 
Deafened  by  his  own  stir, 
The  rugged  laborer 


46  THE   SECOND   BEST. 

Caught  not  till  then  a  sense 
So  glowing  and  so  near 
Of  his  omnipotence. 

So,  when  the  feast  grew  loud 
In  Susa's  palace  proud, 
A  white-robed  slave  stole  to  the  great  king's  side. 
He  spake  —  the  great  king  heard  ; 
Felt  the  slow- rolling  word 
Swell  his  attentive  soul ; 
Breathed  deeply  as  it  died, 
And  drained  his  mighty  bowl. 


THE  SECOND  BEST. 

Moderate  tasks  and  moderate  leisure, 
Quiet  living,  strict-kept  measure 
Both  in  suffering  and  in  pleasure,  — 
'Tis  for  this  thy  nature  yearns. 

But  so  many  books  thou  readest, 
But  so  many  schemes  thou  breedest, 
But  so  many  wishes  feedest, 

That  thy  poor  head  almost  turns. 

And  (the  world's  so  madly  jangled, 
Human  things  so  fast  entangled) 
Nature's  wish  must  now  be  strangled 
For  that  best  which  she  discerns. 

So  it  must  be  !  yet,  while  leading 
A  strained  life,  while  over-feeding, 
Like  the  rest,  his  wit  with  reading, 
No  small  profit  that  man  earns,  — 


CONSOLA  TION.  47 

Who  through  all  he  meets  can  steer  him, 
Can  reject  what  cannot  clear  him, 
Cling  to  what  can  truly  cheer  him ; 
Who  each  day  more  surely  learns 

That  an  impulse,  from  the  distance 
Of  his  deepest,  best  existence, 
To  the  words,  "  Hope,  Light,  Persistence," 
Strongly  sets  and  truly  burns. 


CONSOLATION. 

Mist  clogs  the  sunshine. 
Smoky  dwarf  houses 
Hem  me  round  everywhere  ; 
A  vague  dejection 
Weighs  down  my  soul. 

Yet,  while  I  languish, 
Everywhere  countless 
Prospects  unroll  themselves, 
And  countless  beings 
Pass  countless  moods. 

Far  hence,  in  Asia, 

On  the  smooth  convent- roofs, 

On  the  gold  terraces, 

Of  holy  Lassa, 

Bright  shines  the  sun. 

Gray  time-worn  marbles 
Hold  the  pure  Muses  ; 
In  their  cool  gallery, 
By  yellow  Tiber, 
They  still  look  fair. 


48  CONSOLA  TION. 

Strange  unloved  uproar ' 
Shrills  round  their  portal ; 
Yet  not  on  Helicon 
Kept  they  more  cloudless 
Their  noble  calm. 

Through  sun-proof  alleys 
In  a  lone,  sand-hemmed 
City  of  Africa, 
A  blind,  led  beggar, 
Age-bowed,  asks  alms. 

No  bolder  robber 
Erst  abode  ambushed 
Deep  in  the  sandy  waste ; 
No  clearer  eyesight 
Spied  prey  afar. 

Saharan  sand-winds 
Seared  his  keen  eyeballs  ; 
Spent  is  the  spoil  he  won. 
For  him  the  present 
Holds  only  pain. 

Two  young,  fair  lovers, 
Where  the  warm  June-wind, 
Fresh  from  the  summer  fields 
Plays  fondly  round  them, 
Stand,  tranced  in  joy. 

With  sweet,  joined  voices, 
And  with  eyes  brimming, 
"  Ah  !  "  they  cry,  "  Destiny, 
Prolong  the  present  ! 
Time,  stand  still  here  !  " 

1  Written  during  the  siege  of  Rome  by  the  French.,  1849. 


RESIGN  A  TION.  49 

The  prompt  stern  goddess 
Shakes  her  head,  frowning  : 
Time  gives  his  hour-glass 
Its  due  reversal ; 
Their  hour  is  gone. 

With  weak  indulgence 
Did  the  just  goddess 
Lengthen  their  happiness, 
She  lengthened  also 
Distress  elsewhere. 

The  hour  whose  happy 
Unalloyed  moments 
I  would  eternalize, 
Ten  thousand  mourners 
Well  pleased  see  end. 

The  bleak,  stern  hour, 
Whose  severe  moments 
I  would  annihilate, 
Is  passed  by  others 
In  warmth,  light,  joy. 

Time,  so  complained  of, 
Who  to  no  one  man 
Shows  partiality, 
Brings  round  to  all  men 
Some  undimmed  hours. 


RESIGNATION. 

TO   FAUSTA. 

To  die  be  given  us,  or  attain  / 
Fierce  work  it  were,  to  do  again. 


50  RESIGNA  TION. 

So  pilgrims,  bound  for  Mecca,  prayed 

At  burning  noon  ;  so  warriors  said, 

Scarfed  with  the  cross,  who  watched  the  miles 

Of  dust  which  wreathed  their  struggling  files 

Down  Lydian  mountains  ;  so,  when  snows 

Round  Alpine  summits,  eddying,  rose, 

The  Goth,  bound  Rome-wards;  so  the  Hun, 

Crouched  on  his  saddle,  while  the  sun 

Went  lurid  down  o'er  flooded  plains 

Through  which  the  groaning  Danube  strains 

To  the  drear  Euxine  :  so  pray  all, 

Whom  labors,  self-ordained,  inthraU  ; 

Because  they  to  themselves  propose 

On  this  side  the  all-common  close 

A  goal  which,  gained,  may  give  repose. 

So  pray  they ;  and  to  stand  again 

Where  they  stood  once,  to  them  were  pain ; 

Pain  to  thread  back  and  to  renew 

Past  straits,  and  currents  long  steered  through. 

But  milder  natures,  and  more  free,  — 

Whom  an  unblamed  serenity 

Hath  freed  from  passions,  and  the  state 

Of  struggle  these  necessitate  ; 

Whom  schooling  of  the  stubborn  mind 

Hath  made,  or  birth  hath  found,  resigned, — 

These  mourn  not,  that  their  goings  pay 

Obedience  to  the  passing  day. 

These  claim  not  every  laughing  hour 

For  handmaid  to  their  striding  power ; 

Each  in  her  turn,  with  torch  upreared, 

To  await  their  march  ;  and  when  appeared, 

Through  the  cold  gloom,  with  measured  race, 

To  usher  for  a  destined  space 


RESIGN  A  TION.  5  1 

(Her  own  sweet  errands  all  foregone) 
The  too  imperious  traveller  on. 
These,  Fausta,  ask  not  this  ;  nor  thou, 
Time's  chafing  prisoner,  ask  it  now  ! 


We  left  just  ten  years  since,  you  say, 
That  wayside  inn  we  left  to-day.4 
Our  jovial  host,  as  forth  we  fare, 
Shouts  greeting  from  his  easy-chair. 
High  on  a  bank  our  leader  stands, 
Reviews  and  ranks  his  motley  bands, 
Makes  clear  our  goal  to  every  eye,  — 
The  valley's  western  boundary. 
A  gate  swings  to  !  our  tide  hath  flowed 
Already  from  the  silent  road. 
The  valley-pastures,  one  by  one, 
Are  threaded,  quiet  in  the  sun ; 
And  now,  beyond  the  rude  stone  bridge, 
Slopes  gracious  up  the  western  ridge. 
Its  woody  border,  and  the  last 
Of  its  dark  upland  farms,  is  past ; 
Cool  farms,  with  open-lying  stores, 
Under  their  burnished  sycamores,  — 
All  past !  and  through  the  trees  we  glide 
Emerging  on  the  green  hillside. 
There  climbing  hangs,  a  far-seen  sign, 
Our  wavering,  many-colored  line  ; 
There  winds,  up-streaming  slowly  still 
Over  the  summit  of  the  hill. 
And  now,  in  front,  behold  outspread 
Those  upper  regions  we  must  tread,  — 
Mild  hollows,  and  clear  heathy  swells, 
The  cheerful  silence  of  the  fells. 


5  2  RESIGN  A  TION. 

Some  two  hours'  march,  with  serious  air, 
Through  the  deep  noontide  heats  we  fare  ; 
The  red-grouse,  springing  at  our  sound, 
Skims,  now  and  then,  the  shining  ground ; 
No  life,  save  his  and  ours,  intrudes 
Upon  these  breathless  solitudes. 
Oh,  joy  !  again  the  farms  appear. 
Cool  shade  is  there,  and  rustic  cheer  ; 
There  springs  the  brook  will  guide  us  down, 
Bright  comrade,  to  the  noisy  town. 
Lingering,  we  follow  down ;  we  gain 
The  town,  the  highway,  and  the  plain. 
And  many  a  mile  of  dusty  way, 
Parched  and  road-worn,  we  made  that  day ; 
But,  Fausta,  I  remember  well, 
That  as  the  balmy  darkness  fell, 
We  bathed  our  hands  with  speechless  glee, 
That  night,  in  the  wide-glimmering  sea. 


Once  more  we  tread  this  self-same  road, 
Fausta,  which  ten  years  since  we  trod  ; 
Alone  we  tread  it,  you  and  I, 
Ghosts  of  that  boisterous  company. 
Here,  where  the  brook  shines,  near  its  head, 
In  its  clear,  shallow,  turf-fringed  bed  ; 
Here,  whence  the  eye  first  sees,  far  down, 
Capped  with  faint  smoke,  the  noisy  town,  — 
Here  sit  we,  and  again  unroll, 
Though  slowly,  the  familiar  whole. 
The  solemn  wastes  of  heathy  hill 
Sleep  in  the  July  sunshine  still ; 
The  self-same  shadows  now,  as  then, 
Play  through  this  grassy  upland  glen ; 


RESIGNATION.  53 

The  loose  dark  stones  on  the  green  way 
Lie  strewn,  it  seems,  where  then  they  lay ; 
On  this  mild  bank  above  the  stream, 
(You  crush  them  !)  the  blue  gentians  gleam. 
Still  this  wild  brook,  the  rushes  cool, 
The  sailing  foam,  the  shining  pool ! 
These  are  not  changed ;  and  we,  you  say, 
Are  scarce  more  changed,  in  truth,  than  they. 


The  gypsies,  whom  we  met  below, 
They  too  have  long  roamed  to  and  fro ; 
They  ramble,  leaving,  where  they  pass, 
Their  fragments  on  the  cumbered  grass. 
And  often  to  some  kindly  place 
Chance  guides  the  migratory  race, 
Where,  though  long  wanderings  intervene, 
They  recognize  a  former  scene. 
The  dingy  tents  are  pitched ;  the  fires 
Give  to  the  wind  their  wavering  spires ; 
In  dark  knots  crouch  round  the  wild  flame 
Their  children,  as  when  first  they  came ; 
They  see  their  shackled  beasts  again 
Move,  browsing,  up  the  gray-walled  lane. 
Signs  are  not  wanting,  which  might  raise 
The  ghost  in  them  of  former  days,  — 
Signs  are  not  wanting,  if  they  would  ; 
Suggestions  to  disquietude. 
For  them,  for  all,  time's  busy  touch, 
While  it  mends  little,  troubles  much. 
Their  joints  grow  stiffer  —  but  the  year 
Runs  his  old  round  of  dubious  cheer ; 
Chilly  they  grow  —  yet  winds  in  March, 
Still,  sharp  as  ever,  freeze  and  parch ; 


54  RESIGNATION. 

They  must  live  still  —  and  yet,  God  knows, 
Crowded  and  keen  the  country  grows  ; 
It  seems  as  if,  in  their  decay, 
The  law  grew  stronger  every  day. 
So  might  they  reason,  so  compare, 
Fausta,  times  past  with  times  that  are  ; 
But  no  !  they  rubbed  through  yesterday 
In  their  hereditary  way, 
And  they  will  rub  through,  if  they  can, 
To-morrow  on  the  self-same  plan, 
Till  death  arrive  to  supersede, 
For  them,  vicissitude  and  need. 


The  poet,  to  whose  mighty  heart 

Heaven  doth  a  quicker  pulse  impart, 

Subdues  that  energy  to  scan 

Not  his  own  course,  but  that  of  man. 

Though  he  move  mountains,  though  his  day 

Be  passed  on  the  proud  heights  of  sway, 

Though  he  hath  loosed  a  thousand  chains, 

Though  he  hath  borne  immortal  pains, 

Action  and  suffering  though  he  know,  — 

He  hath  not  lived,  if  he  lives  so. 

He  sees,  in  some  great-historied  land, 

A  ruler  of  the  people  stand, 

Sees  his  strong  thought  in  fiery  flood 

Roll  through  the  heaving  multitude, 

Exults  —  yet  for  no  moment's  space 

Envies  the  all-regarded  place. 

Beautiful  eyes  meet  his,  and  he 

Bears  to  admire  uncravingly  ; 

They  pass  :  he,  mingled  with  the  crowd, 

Is  in  their  far-off  triumphs  proud. 


RESIGN  A  TION.  5  5 

From  some  high  station  he  looks  down, 

At  sunset,  on  a  populous  town  ; 

Surveys  each  happy  group  which  fleets, 

Toil  ended,  through  the  shining  streets,— 

Each  with  some  errand  of  its  own, — 

And  does  not  say,  /  a?n  alone. 

He  sees  the  gentle  stir  of  birth 

When  morning  purifies  the  earth  ; 

He  leans  upon  a  gate,  and  sees 

The  pastures,  and  the  quiet  trees. 

Low,  woody  hill,  with  gracious  bound, 

Folds  the  still  valley  almost  round  ; 

The  cuckoo,  loud  on  some  high  lawn, 

Is  answered  from  the  depth  of  dawn  ; 

In  the  hedge  straggling  to  the  stream, 

Pale,  dew-drenched,  half-shut  roses  gleam. 

But,  where  the  farther  side  slopes  down, 

He  sees  the  drowsy  new-waked  clown 

In  his  white  quaint-embroidered  frock 

Make,    whistling,    toward    his    mist -wreathed 

flock, 
Slowly,  behind  his  heavy  tread, 
The  wet,  flowered  grass  heaves  up  its  head. 
Leaned  on  his  gate,  he  gazes  :  tears 
Are  in  his  eyes,  and  in  his  ears 
The  murmur  of  a  thousand  years. 
Before  him  he  sees  life  unroll, 
A  placid  and  continuous  whole,  — 
That  general  life,  which  does  not  cease, 
Whose  secret  is  not  joy,  but  peace  ; 
That  life,  whose  dumb  wish  is  not  missed 
If  birth  proceeds,  if  things  subsist ; 
The  life  of  plants,  and  stones,  and  rain, 
The  life  he  craves  —  if  not  in  vain 


56  RESIGNATION. 

Fate  gave,  what  chance  shall  not  control, 
His  sad  lucidity  of  soul. 

You  listen  ;  but  that  wandering  smile, 

Fausta,  betrays  you  cold  the  while  ! 

Your  eyes  pursue  the  bells  of  foam 

Washed,  eddying,  from  this  bank,  their  home. 

Those  gypsies  —  so  your  thoughts  I  scan  — 

Arc  less,  the  poet  more,  than  man. 

They  feel  not,  though  they  move  and  see. 

Deeper  the  poet  feels  ;  but  he 

Breathes,  when  he  will,  immortal  air, 

Where  Orpheus  and  where  Homer  are. 

In  the  day's  life,  whose  iron  round 

Hems  us  all  in,  he  is  not  bound ; 

He  leaves  his  kind,  o'er  leaps  their  pen, 

And  flees  the  common  life  of  men. 

He  escapes  thence,  but  we  abide. 

Not  deep  the  poet  sees,  but  wide. 

The  world  in  which  we  live  and  move 

Outlasts  aversion,  outlasts  love, 

Outlasts  each  effort,  interest,  hope, 

Remorse,  grief,  joy ;  and,  were  the  scope 

Of  these  affections  wider  made, 

Man  still  would  see,  and  see  dismayed, 

Beyond  his  passion's  widest  range, 

Far  regions  of  eternal  change. 

Nay,  and  since  death,  which  wipes  out  man. 

Finds  him  with  many  an  unsolved  plan, 

With  much  unknown,  and  much  untried, 

Wonder  not  dead,  and  thirst  not  dried, 

Still  gazing  on  the  ever  full    ■ 

Eternal  mundane  spectacle,  — 


RESIGN  A  TIOiV.  5  7 

This  world  in  which  we  draw  our  breath, 
In  some  sense,  Fausta,  outlasts  death. 

Blame  thou  not,  therefore,  him  who  dares 
Judge  vain  beforehand  human  cares  ; 
Whose  natural  insight  can  discern 
What  through  experience  others  learn  ; 
Who  needs  not  love  and  power,  to  know 
Love  transient,  power  an  unreal  show ; 
Who  treads  at  ease  life's  uncheered  ways  : 
Him  blame  not,  Fausta,  rather  praise  ! 
Rather  thyself  for  some  aim  pray, 
Nobler  than  this,  to  fill  the  day ; 
Rather  that  heart,  which  burns  in  thee, 
Ask,  not  to  amuse,  but  to  set  free ; 
Be  passionate  hopes  not  ill  resigned 
For  quiet,  and  a  fearless  mind. 
And  though  fate  grudge  to  thee  and  me 
The  poet's  rapt  security, 
Yet  they,  believe  me,  who  await 
No  gifts  from  chance,  have  conquered  fate. 
They,  winning  room  to  see  and  hear, 
And  to  men's  business  not  too  near, 
Through  clouds  of  individual  strife 
Draw  homeward  to  the  general  life. 
Like  leaves  by  suns  not  yet  uncurled ; 
To  the  wise,  foolish  ;  to  the  world, 
Weak  :  yet  not  weak,  I  might  reply, 
Not  foolish,  Fausta,  in  His  eye, 
To  whom  each  moment  in  its  race, 
Crowd  as  we  will  its  neutral  space, 
Is  but  a  quiet  watershed 

Whence,  equally,  the  seas  of  life  and  death  are 
fed. 


58  A  DREAM. 

Enough,  we  live  !  and  if  a  life 

With  large  results  so  little  rife, 

Though  bearable,  seem  hardly  worth 

This  pomp  of  worlds,  this  pain  of  birth  j 

Yet,  Fausta,  the  mute  turf  we  tread, 

The  solemn  hills  around  us  spread, 

This  stream  which  falls  incessantly, 

The  strange-scrawled  rocks,  the  lonely  sky, 

If  I  might  lend  their  life  a  voice, 

Seem  to  bear  rather  than  rejoice. 

And  even  could  the  intemperate  prayer 

Man  iterates,  while  these  forbear, 

For  movement,  for  an  ampler  sphere, 

Pierce  Fate's  impenetrable  ear ; 

Not  milder  is  the  general  lot 

Because  our  spirits  have  forgot, 

In  action's  dizzying  eddy  whirled, 

The  something  that  infects  the  world. 


A   DREAM. 


Was  it  a  dream  ?     We  sail'd,  I  thought  we  sail'd, 

Martin  and  I,  down  a  green  Alpine  stream, 

Border'd,  each  bank,  with  pines  ;  the  morning  sun, 

On  the  wet  umbrage  of  their  glossy  tops, 

On  the  red  pinings  of  their  forest-floor, 

Drew  a  warm  scent  abroad  ;  behind  the  pines 

The  mountain-skirts,  with  all  their  sylvan  change 

Of  bright-leaf 'd  chestnuts  and  moss'd  walnut-trees 

And  the  frail  scarlet-berried  ash,  began. 

Swiss  chalets  glitter'd  on  the  dewy  slopes, 

And  from  some  swarded  shelf,  high  up,  there  came 

Notes  of  wild  pastoral  music  —  over  all 

Ranged,  diamond-bright,  the  eternal  wall  of  snow. 

Upon  the  mossy  rocks  at  the  stream's  edge, 


HORATIAN  ECHO.  59 

Back'd  by  the  pines,  a  plank-built  cottage  stood, 
Bright  in  the  sun ;  the  climbing  gourd-plant's  leaves 
Muffled  its  walls,  and  on  the  stone-strewn  roof 
Lay  the  warm  golden  gourds  ;  golden,  within, 
Under  the  eaves,  peer'd  rows  of  Indian  corn. 
We  shot  beneath  the  cottage  with  the  stream. 
On  the  brown,  rude-carved  balcony,  two  forms 
Came  forth  —  Olivia's,  Marguerite  !  and  thine. 
Clad  were  they  both  in  white,  flowers  in  their  breast ; 
Straw  hats  bedeck'd  their  heads,  with  ribbons  blue, 
Which  danced,  and  on  their  shoulders,  fluttering,  play'd. 
They  saw  us,  they  conferr'd  ;  their  bosoms  heaved, 
And  more  than  mortal  impulse  fill'd  their  eyes. 
Their  lips  moved  ;  their  white  arms,  waved  eagerly, 
Flash'd  once,  like  falling  streams ;  we  rose,  we  gazed. 
One  moment,  on  the  rapid's  top,  our  boat 
Hung  poised  —  and  then  the  darting  river  of  Life 
(Such  now,  methought,  it  was),  the  river  of  Life, 
Loud  thundering,  bore  us  by ;  swift,  swift  it  foam'd, 
Black  under  cliffs  it  raced,  round  headlands  shone. 
Soon  the  plank'd  cottage  by  the  sun-warm'd  pines 
Faded  —  the  moss  —  the  rocks  ;  us  burning  plains, 
Bristled  with  cities,  us  the  sea  received. 


HORATIAN  ECHO. 

TO  AN  AMBITIOUS   FRIEND. 

Written  in  1847.  Printed  by  permission  of  Mr.  Arthur  Galton,  to 
whom  the  Poem  was  given  in  1886  for  publication  in  The  Hobby 
Horse. 

Omit,  omit,  my  simple  friend, 
Still  to  inquire  how  parties  tend, 
Or  what  we  fix  with  foreign  powers. 
If  France  and  we  are  really  friends, 
And  what  the  Russian  czar  intends, 
Is  no  concern  of  ours. 


60  HORATIAN  ECHO. 

Us  not  the  daily  quickening  race 

Of  the  invading  populace 

Shall  draw  to  swell  that  shouldering  herd. 

Mourn  will  we  not  your  closing  hour, 

Ye  imbeciles  in  present  power, 

Doom'd,  pompous,  and  absurd  ! 

And  let  us  bear,  that  they  debate 
Of  all  the  engine-work  of  state, 
Of  commerce,  laws,  and  policy, 
The  secrets  of  the  world's  machine, 
And  what  the  rights  of  man  may  mean, 
With  readier  tongue  than  we. 

Only,  that  with  no  finer  art 
They  cloak  the  troubles  of  the  heart 
With  pleasant  smile,  let  us  take  care ; 
Nor  with  a  lighter  hand  dispose 
Fresh  garlands  of  this  dewy  rose, 
To  crown  Eugenia's  hair. 

Of  little  threads  our  life  is  spun, 
And  he  spins  ill,  who  misses  one. 
But  is  thy  fair  Eugenia  cold  ? 
Yet  Helen  had  an  equal  grace, 
And  Juliet's  was  as  fair  a  face, 

And  now  their  years  are  told. 

The  day  approaches,  when  we  must 
Be  crumbling  bones  and  windy  dust ; 
And  scorn  us  as  our  mistress  may, 
Her  beauty  will  no  better  be 
Than  the  poor  face  she  slights  in  thee, 
When  dawns  that  day,  that  day. 


NARRATIVE    POEMS. 


SOHRAB  AND  RUSTUM? 
AN  EPISODE. 

And  the  first  gray  of  morning  filled  the  east, 

And  the  fog  rose  out  of  the  Oxus  stream. 

But  all  the  Tartar  camp  along  the  stream 

Was  hushed,  and  still  the  men  were  plunged  in  sleep. 

Sohrab  alone,  he  slept  not ;  all  night  long 

He  had  lain  wakeful,  tossing  on  his  bed  : 

But  when  the  gray  dawn  stole  into  his  tent, 

He  rose,  and  clad  himself,  and  girt  his  sword, 

And  took  his  horseman's  cloak,  and  left  his  tent, 

And  went  abroad  into  the  cold  wet  fog, 

Through  the  dim  camp  to  Peran-Wisa's  tent. 

Through  the  black  Tartar  tents  he  passed,  which 
stood 
Clustering  like  bee-hives  on  the  low  flat  strand 
Of  Oxus,  where  the  summer-floods  o'erflow 
When  the  sun  melts  the  snows  in  high  Pamere ; 
Through  the  black  tents  he  passed,  o'er  that  low  strand, 
And  to  a  hillock  came,  a  little  back 
From  the  stream's  brink,  —  the  spot  where  first  a  boat, 
Crossing  the  stream  in  summer,  scrapes  the  land. 
The  men  of  former  times  had  crowned  the  top 
With  a  clay  fort ;  but  that  was  fallen,  and  now 

61 


62  SOHRAIi   AND    RUSTUM. 

The  Tartars  built  there  Peran-Wisa's  tent, 

A  dome  of  laths,  and  o'er  it  felts  were  spread. 

And  Sohrab  came  there,  and  went  in,  and  stood 

Upon  the  thick  piled  carpets  in  the  tent, 

And  found  the  old  man  sleeping  on  his  bed 

Of  rugs  and  felts,  and  near  him  lay  his  arms. 

And  Peran-Wisa  heard  him,  though  the  step 

Was  dulled  ;  for  he  slept  light,  an  old  man's  sleep ; 

And  he  rose  quickly  on  one  arm,  and  said,  — 

"  Who  art  thou  ?  for  it  is  not  yet  clear  dawn. 
Speak  !  is  there  news,  or  any  night  alarm?  " 

But  Sohrab  came  to  the  bedside,  and  said, — 
"  Thou  know'st  me,  Peran-Wisa  !  it  is  I. 
The  sun  has  not  yet  risen,  and  the  foe 
Sleep  :  but  I  sleep  not ;  all  night  long  I  lie 
Tossing  and  wakeful,  and  I  come  to  thee. 
For  so  did  King  Afrasiab  bid  me  seek 
Thy  counsel,  and  to  heed  thee  as  thy  son, 
In  Samarcand,  before  the  army  marched  ; 
And  I  will  tell  thee  what  my  heart  desires. 
Thou  know'st  if,  since  from  Ader-baijan  first 
I  came  among  the  Tartars,  and  bore  arms, 
I  have  still  served  Afrasiab  well,  and  shown, 
At  my  boy's  years,  the  courage  of  a  man. 
This  too  thou  know'st,  that  while  I  still  bear  on 
The  conquering  Tartar  ensigns  through  the  world, 
And  beat  the  Persians  back  on  every  field, 
I  seek  one  man,  one  man,  and  one  alone,  — 
Rustum,  my  father ;  who  I  hoped  should  greet, 
Should  one  day  greet,  upon  some  well-fought  field, 
His  not  unworthy,  not  inglorious  son. 
So  I  long  hoped,  but  him  I  never  find. 
Come  then,  hear  now,  and  grant  me  what  I  ask. 
Let  the  two  armies  rest  to-day  ;  but  I 


SOHRAB   AND  RUSTUM.  63 

Will  challenge  forth  the  bravest  Persian  lords 

To  meet  me,  man  to  man  :  if  I  prevail, 

Rustum  will  surely  hear  it  j  if  I  fall  — 

Old  man,  the  dead  need  no  one,  claim  no  kin. 

Dim  is  the  rumor  of  a  common  fight, 

Where  host  meets  host,  and  many  names  are  sunk ; 

But  of  a  single  combat  fame  speaks  clear." 

He  spoke  ;  and  Peran-Wisa  took  the  hand 
Of  the  young  man  in  his,  and  sighed,  and  said,  — 

"  O  Sohrab,  an  unquiet  heart  is  thine  ! 
Canst  thou  not  rest  among  the  Tartar  chiefs, 
And  share  the  battle's  common  chance  with  us 
Who  love  thee,  but  must  press  forever  first, 
In  single  fight  incurring  single  risk, 
To  find  a  father  thou  hast  never  seen  ? 
That  were  far  best,  my  son,  to  stay  with  us 
Unmurmuring ;  in  our  tents,  while  it  is  war, 
And  when  'tis  truce,  then  in  Afrasiab's  towns. 
But  if  this  one  desire  indeed  rules  all, 
To  seek  out  Rustum  —  seek  him  not  through  fight ! 
Seek  him  in  peace,  and  carry  to  his  arms, 
O  Sohrab,  carry  an  unwounded  son  ! 
But  far  hence  seek  him,  for  he  is  not  here. 
For  now  it  is  not  as  when  I  was  young, 
When  Rustum  was  in  front  of  every  fray  : 
But  now  he  keeps  apart,  and  sits  at  home, 
In  Seistan,  with  Zal,  his  father  old ; 
Whether  that  his  own  mighty  strength  at  last 
Feels  the  abhorred  approaches  of  old  age  ; 
Or  in  some  quarrel  with  the  Persian  king. 
There  go  !  —  Thou  wilt  not  ?     Yet  my  heart  forebodes 
Dancrer  or  death  awaits  thee  on  this  field. 

O 

Fain  would  I  know  thee  safe  and  well,  though  lost 
To  us ;  fain  therefore  send  thee  hence  in  peace 


64  SOHRAB   AND   RUSTUM. 

To  seek  thy  father,  not  seek  single  fights 
In  vain.     But  who  can  keep  the  lion's  cub 
From  ravening,  and  who  govern  Rustum's  son  ? 
Go,  I  will  grant  thee  what  thy  heart  desires."    ■ 

So  said  he,  and  dropped  Sohrab's  hand,  and  left 
His  bed,  and  the  warm  rugs  whereon  he  lay; 
And  o'er  his  chilly  limbs  his  woollen  coat 
He  passed,  and  tied  his  sandals  on  his  feet, 
And  threw  a  white  cloak  round  him,  and  he  took 
In  his  right  hand  a  ruler's  staff,  no  sword  ; 
And  on  his  head  he  set  his  sheep-skin  cap, 
Black,  glossy,  curled,  the  fleece  of  Kara-Kul ; 
And  raised  the  curtain  of  his  tent,  and  called 
His  herald  to  his  side,  and  went  abroad. 

The  sun  by  this  had  risen,  and  cleared  the  fog 
From  the  broad  Oxus  and  the  glittering  sands. 
And  from  their  tents  the  Tartar  horsemen  filed 
Into  the  open  plain  :  so  Hainan  bade,  — 
Haman,  who  next  to  Peran-Wisa  ruled 
The  host,  and  still  was  in  his  lusty  prime. 
From   their   black   tents,  long   files   of  horse,  they 

streamed ; 
As  when  some  gray  November  morn  the  files, 
In  marching  order  spread,  of  long-necked  cranes 
Stream  over  Casbin  and  the  southern  slopes 
Of  Elburz,  from  the  Aralian  estuaries, 
Or  some  frore  Caspian  reed-bed,  southward  bound 
For  the  warm  Persian  seaboard,  —  so  they  streamed. 
The  Tartars  of  the  Oxus,  the  king's  guard, 
First,  with  black  sheep-skin  caps  and  with  long  spears  ; 
Large  men,  large  steeds,  who  from  Bokhara  come 
And  Khiva,  and  ferment  the  milk  of  mares. 
Next,  the  more  temperate  Toorkmuns  of  the  south, 
The  Tukas,  and  the  lances  of  Salore, 


SOHRAB    AND   RUSTUM.  6$ 

And  those  from  Attruck  and  the  Caspian  sands ; 

Light  men  and  on  light  steeds,  who  only  drink 

The  acrid  milk  of  camels,  and  their  wells. 

And  then  a  swarm  of  wandering  horse,  who  came 

From  far,  and  a  more  doubtful  service  owned,  — 

The  Tartars  of  Ferghana,  from  the  banks 

Of  the  Jaxartes,  men  with  scanty  beards 

And  close-set  skull-caps ;  and  those  wilder  hordes 

Who  roam  o'er  Kipchak  and  the  northern  waste, 

Kalmucks  and  unkempt  Kuzzaks,  tribes  who  stray 

Nearest  the  Pole,  and  wandering  Kirghizzes, 

Who  come  on  shaggy  ponies  from  Pamere,  — 

These  all  filed  out  from  camp  into  the  plain. 

And  on  the  other  side  the  Persians  formed,  — 

First  a  light  cloud  of  horse,  Tartars  they  seemed, 

The  Ilyats  of  Khorassan  ;  and  behind, 

The  royal  troops  of  Persia,  horse  and  foot, 

Marshalled  battalions  bright  in  burnished  steel. 

But  Peran-Wisa  with  his  herald  came, 

Threading  the  Tartar  squadrons  to  the  front, 

And  with  his  staff  kept  back  the  foremost  ranks. 

And  when  Ferood,  who  led  the  Persians,  saw 

That  Peran-Wisa  kept  the  Tartars  back, 

He  took  his  spear,  and  to  the  front  he  came, 

And  checked  his  ranks,  and  fixed  them  where   thej 

stood. 
And  the  old  Tartar  came  upon  the  sand 
Betwixt  the  silent  hosts,  and  spake,  and  said,  — 

"  Ferood,  and  ye,  Persians  and  Tartars,  hear  ! 
Let  there  be  truce  between  the  hosts  to-day. 
But  choose  a  champion  from  the  Persian  lords 
To  fight  our  champion  Sohrab,  man  to  man." 

As  in  the  country,  on  a  morn  in  June, 
When  the  dew  glistens  on  the  pearled  ears, 


66  SOHRAB   AXD  KUSTUM. 

A  shiver  runs  through  the  deep  corn  for  joy,  — 
So,  when  they  heard  what  Peran-Wisa  said, 
A  thrill  through  all  the  Tartar  squadrons  ran 
Of  pride  and  hope  for  Sohrab,  whom  they  loved. 

But  as  a  troop  of  pedlers  from  Cabool 
Cross  underneath  the  Indian  Caucasus, 
That  vast  sky-neighboring  mountain  of  milk  snow ; 
Crossing  so  high,  that,  as  they  mount,  they  pass 
Long  flocks  of  travelling  birds  dead  on  the  snow, 
Choked  by  the  air,  and  scarce  can  they  themselves 
Slake  their  parched  throats  with  sugared  mulberries ; 
In  single  file  they  move,  and  stop  their  breath, 
For  fear  they  should  dislodge  the  o'erhanging  snows, — 
So  the  pale  Persians  held  their  breath  with  fear. 

And  to  Ferood  his  brother  chiefs  came  up 
To  counsel ;  Gudurz  and  Zoarrah  came, 
And  Feraburz,  who  ruled  the  Persian  host 
Second,  and  was  the  uncle  of  the  king ; 
These  came  and  counselled,  and  then  Gudurz  said,  — 

"  Ferood,  shame  bids  us  take  their  challenge  up, 
Yet  champion  have  we  none  to  match  this  youth. 
He  has  the  wild  stag's  foot,  the  lion's  heart. 
But  Rustum  came  last  night ;  aloof  he  sits 
And  sullen,  and  has  pitched  his  tents  apart. 
Him  will  I  seek,  and  carry  to  his  ear 
The  Tartar  challenge,  and  this  young  man's  name  ; 
Haply  he  will  forget  his  wrath,  and  fight. 
Stand  forth  the  while,  and  take  their  challenge  up." 

So  spake  he  ;  and  Ferood  stood  forth  and  cried,  — 
"  Old  man,  be  it  agreed  as  thou  hast  said  ! 
Let  Sohrab  arm,  and  we  will  find  a  man." 

He  spake  ;  and  Peran-Wisa  turned,  and  strode 
Back  through  the  opening  squadrons  to  his  tent. 
But  through  the  anxious  Persians  Gudurz  ran, 


SOUR  A  B   AND   RUSTUM.  &7 

And  crossed  the  camp  which  lay  behind,  and  reached, 

Out  on  the  sands  beyond  it,  Rustum's  tents. 

Of  scarlet  cloth  they  were,  and  glittering  gay, 

Just  pitched ;  the  high  pavilion  in  the  midst 

Was  Rustum's,  and  his  men  lay  camped  around. 

And  Gudurz  entered  Rustum's  tent,  and  found 

Rustum  ;  his  morning  meal  was  done,  but  still 

The  table  stood  before  him,  charged  with  food,  — 

A  side  of  roasted  sheep,  and  cakes  of  bread, 

And  dark-green  melons ;  and  there  Rustum  sate 

Listless,  and  held  a  falcon  on  his  wrist, 

And  played  with  it;  but  Gudurz  came  and  stood 

Before  him ;  and  he  looked,  and  saw  him  stand, 

And  with  a  cry  sprang  up,  and  dropped  the  bird, 

And  greeted  Gudurz  with  both  hands,  and  said,  — 

"  Welcome  !  these  eyes  could  see  no  better  sight. 
What  news?  but  sit  down  first,  and  eat  and  drink." 

But  Gudurz  stood  in  the  tent-door,  and  said,  — 
"  Not  now.     A  time  will  come  to  eat  and  drink, 
But  not  to-day  :  to-day  has  other  needs. 
The  armies  are  drawn  out,  and  stand  at  gaze ; 
For,  from  the  Tartars  is  a  challenge  brought 
To  pick  a  champion  from  the  Persian  lords 
To  fight  their  champion  —  and  thou  know'st  his  name  : 
Sohrab  men  call  him,  but  his  birth  is  hid. 
O  Rustum,  like  thy  might  is  this  young  man's  ! 
He  has  the  wild  stag's  foot,  the  lion's  heart ; 
And  he  is  young,  and  Iran's  chiefs  are  old, 
Or  else  too  weak ;  and  all  eyes  turn  to  thee. 
Come  down  and  help  us,  Rustum,  or  we  lose  !  " 

He  spoke  ;  but  Rustum  answered  with  a  smile,  — 
"  Go  to  !  if  Iran's  chiefs  are  old,  then  I 
Am  older.     If  the  young  are  weak,  the  king 
Errs  strangely ;  for  the  king,  for  Kai  Khosroo, 


6S  SOHRAB  AND   RUSTUM. 

Himself  is  young,  and  honors  younger  men, 
And  lets  the  aged  moulder  to  their  graves. 
Rustum  he  loves  no  more,  but  loves  the  young: 
The  young  may  rise  at  Sohrab's  vaunts,  not  I. 
For  what  care  I,  though  all  speak  Sohrab's  fame? 
For  would  that  I  myself  had  such  a  son, 
And  not  that  one  slight  helpless  girl  I  have!  — 
A  son  so  famed,  so  brave,  to  send  to  war, 
And  I  to  tarry  with  the  snow-haired  Zal, 
My  father,  whom  the  robber  Afghans  vex, 
And  clip  his  borders  short,  and  drive  his  herds, 
And  he  has  none  to  guard  his  weak  old  age. 
There  would  I  go,  and  hang  my  armor  up, 
Afid  with  my  great  name  fence  that  weak  old  man, 
And  spend  the  goodly  treasures  I  have  got, 
And  rest  my  age,  and  hear  of  Sohrab's  fame, 
And  leave  to  death  the  hosts  of  thankless  kings, 
And  with  these  slaughterous  hands  draw  sword  no 
more." 

He  spoke,  and  smiled;  and  Gudurz  made  reply,  — 
"What  then,  O  Rustum,  will  men  say  to  this, 
When  Sohrab  dares  our  bravest  forth,  and  seeks 
Thee  most  of  all,  and  thou,  whom  most  he  seeks, 
Hidest  thy  face?     Take  heed  lest  men  should  say,  — 
Like  some  old  miser,  Rustum  hoards  his  fame, 
And  shuns  to  peril  it  with  younger  men." 

And,  greatly  moved,  then  Rustum  made  reply,  — 
"O  Gudurz,  wherefore  dost  thou  say  such  word? 
Thou  knowest  better  words  than  this  to  say. 
What  is  one  more,  one  less,  obscure  or  famed, 
Valiant  or  craven,  young  or  old,  to  me? 
Are  not  they  mortal?  am  not  I  myself? 
But  who  for  men  of  naught  would  do  great  deeds? 
Come,  thou  shalt  see  how  Rustum  hoards  his  fame! 


SOHRAB   AND   RUSTUM.  69 

But  I  will  fight  unknown,  and  in  plain  arms  : 
Let  not  men  say  of  Rustum,  he  was  matched 
In  single  fight  with  any  mortal  man." 

He  spoke,  and  frowned  ;  and  Gudurz  turned,  and  ran 
Back  quickly  through  the  camp  in  fear  and  joy,  — 
Fear  at  his  wrath,  but  joy  that  Rustum  came. 
But  Rustum  strode  to  his  tent-door,  and  called 
His  followers  in,  and  bade  them  bring  his  arms, 
And  clad  himself  in  steel.     The  arms  he  chose 
Were  plain,  and  on  his  shield  was  no  device  ; 
Only  his  helm  was  rich,  inlaid  with  gold, 
And,  from  the  fluted  spine  a-top,  a  plume 
Of  horse-hair  waved,  a  scarlet  horse-hair  plume. 
So  armed,  he  issued  forth ;  and  Ruksh,  his  horse, 
Followed  him  like  a  faithful  hound  at  heel,  — 
Ruksh,  whose  renown  was  noised  through  all  the  earth, 
The  horse  whom  Rustum  on  a  foray  once 
Did  in  Bokhara  by  the  river  find 
A  colt  beneath  its  dam,  and  drove'  him  home, 
And  reared  him  ;  a  bright  bay,  with  lofty  crest, 
Dight  with  a  saddle-cloth  of  broidered  green 
Crusted  with  gold,  and  on  the  ground  were  worked 
All  beasts  of  chase,  all  beasts  which  hunters  know. 
So  followed,  Rustum  left  his  tents,  and  crossed 
The  camp,  and  to  the  Persian  host  appeared. 
And  all  the  Persians  knew  him,  and  with  shouts 
Hailed ;  but  the  Tartars  knew  not  who  he  was. 
And  dear  as  the  wet  diver  to  the  eyes 
Of  his  pale  wife  who  waits  and  weeps  on  shore, 
By  sandy  Bahrein,  in  the  Persian  Gulf, 
Plunging  all  day  in  the  blue  waves,  at  night, 
Having  made  up  his  tale  of  precious  pearls, 
Rejoins  her  in  their  hut  upon  the  sands,  — 
So  dear  to  the  pale  Persians  Rustum  came. 


yo  sour  An  and  rustum. 

And  Rustum  to  the  Persian  front  advanced  ; 
And  Sohrab  armed  in  Hainan's  tent,  and  came. 
And  as  a-field  the  reapers  cut  a  swath 
Down  through  the  middle  of  a  rich  man's  corn, 
And  on  each  side  are  squares  of  standing  corn, 
And  in  the  midst  a  stubble  short  and  bare,  — 
So  on  each  side  were  squares  of  men,  with  spears 
Bristling,  and  in  the  midst  the  open  sand. 
And  Rustum  came  upon  the  sand,  and  cast 
His  eyes  toward  the  Tartar  tents,  and  saw 
Sohrab  come  forth,  and  eyed  him  as  he  came. 

As  some  rich  woman,  on  a  winter's  morn, 
Eyes  through  her  silken  curtains  the  poor  drudge 
Who  with  numb  blackened  fingers  makes  her  fire,  — 
At  cock-crow,  on  a  starlit  winter's  morn, 
When  the  frost  flowers  the  whitened  window-panes,  - 
And  wonders  how  she  lives,  and  what  the  thoughts 
Of  that  poor  drudge  may  be  ;  so  Rustum  eyed 
The  unknown  adventurous  youth,  who  from  afar 
Came  seeking  Rustum,  and  defying  forth 
All  the  most  valiant  chiefs;  long  he  perused 
His  spirited  air,  and  wondered  who  he  was. 
For  very  young  he  seemed,  tenderly  reared  ; 
Like  some  young  cypress,  tall  and  dark  and  straight, 
Which  in  a  queen's  secluded  garden  throws 
Its  slight  dark  shadow  on  the  moonlit  turf, 
By  midnight,  to  a  bubbling  fountain's  sound,  — 
So  slender  Sohrab  seemed,  so  softly  reared. 
And  a  deep  pity  entered  Rustum's  soul 
As  he  beheld  him  coming ;  and  he  stood, 
And  beckoned  to  him  with  his  hand,  and  said,  — 

"  O  thou  young  man,  the  air  of  heaven  is  soft, 
And  warm,  and  pleasant ;  but  the  grave  is  cold  ! 
Heaven's  air  is  better  than  the  cold  dead  grave. 


SOHRAB   AND  RUSTUM.  7 1 

Behold  me  !  I  am  vast,  and  clad  in  iron, 
And  tried  ;  and  I  have  stood  on  many  a  field 
Of  blood,  and  I  have  fought  with  many  a  foe  : 
Never  was  that  field  lost,  or  that  foe  saved. 
O  Sohrab,  wherefore  wilt  thou  rush  on  death? 
Be  governed  :  quit  the  Tartar  host,  and  come 
To  Iran,  and  be  as  my  son  to  me, 
And  fight  beneath  my  banner  till  I  die  ! 
There  are  no  youths  in  Iran  brave  as  thou." 

So  he  spake,  mildly.     Sohrab  heard  his  voice, 
The  mighty  voice  of  Rustum,  and  he  saw 
His  giant  figure  planted  on  the  sand, 
Sole,  like  some  single  tower,  which  a  chief 
Hath  builded  on  the  waste  in  former  years 
Against  the  robbers ;  and  he  saw  that  head, 
Streaked  with  its  first  gray  hairs  ;  hope  filled  his  soul, 
And  he  ran  forward,  and  embraced  his  knees, 
And  clasped  his  hand  within  his  own,  and  said,  — 

"  Oh,  by  thy  father's  head  !  by  thine  own  soul  ! 
Art  thou  not  Rustum?     Speak  !  art  thou  not  he?" 

But  Rustum  eyed  askance  the  kneeling  youth, 
And  turned  away,  and  spake  to  his  own  soul,  — 

'•  Ah  me  !  I  muse  what  this  young  fox  may  mean  ! 
False,  wily,  boastful,  are  these  Tartar  boys. 
For  if  I  now  confess  this  thing  he  asks, 
And  hide  it  not,  but  say,  Rustum  is  here  ! 
He  will  not  yield  indeed,  nor  quit  our  foes ; 
But  he  will  find  some  pretext  not  to  fight, 
And  praise  my  fame,  and  proffer  courteous  gifts, 
A  belt  or  sword  perhaps,  and  go  his  way. 
And  on  a  feast-tide,  in  Afrasiab's  hall 
In  Samarcand,  he  will  arise  and  cry,  — 

'  I  challenged  once,  when  the  two  armies  camped 
Beside  the  Oxus,  all  the  Persian  lords 


72  SOIIRAB   AND   RUSTUM. 

To  cope  with  me  in  single  fight ;  but  they 
Shrank,  only  Rustum  dared  ;  then  he  and  I 
Changed  gifts,  and  went  on  equal  terms  away.' 
So  will  he  speak,  perhaps,  while  men  applaud  ; 
Then  were  the  chiefs  of  Iran  shamed  through  me.'' 

And  then  he  turned,  and  sternly  spake  aloud,  — 
"  Rise  !  wherefore  dost  thou  vainly  question  thus 
Of  Rustum  ?     I  am  here,  whom  thou  hast  called 
By  challenge  forth  ;  make  good  thy  vaunt,  or  yield  ! 
Is  it  with  Rustum  only  thou  wouldst  fight  ? 
Rash  boy,  men  look  on  Rustum's  face,  and  flee  ! 
For  well  I  know,  that  did  great  Rustum  stand 
Before  thy  face  this  day,  and  were  revealed, 
There  would  be  then  no  talk  of  fighting  more. 
But  being  what  I  am,  I  tell  thee  this,  — 
Do  thou  record  it  in  thine  inmost  soul : 
Either  thou  shalt  renounce  thy  vaunt,  and  yield, 
Or  else  thy  bones  shall  strew  this  sand,  till  winds 
Bleach  them,  or  Oxus  with  his  summer-floods, 
Oxus  in  summer  wash  them  all  away." 

He  spoke  ;  and  Sohrab  answered,  on  his  feet,  — 
"  Art  thou  so  fierce  ?     Thou  wilt  not  fight  me  so  ! 
I  am  no  girl,  to  be  made  pale  by  words. 
Yet  this  thou  hast  said  well,  did  Rustum  stand 
Here  on  this  field,  there  were  no  fighting  then. 
But  Rustum  is  far  hence,  and  we  stand  here. 
Begin  !  thou  art  more  vast,  more  dread  than  I ; 
And  thou  art  proved,  I  know,  and  I  am  young  — 
But  yet  success  sways  with  the  breath  of  Heaven. 
And  though  thou  thinkest  that  thou  knowest  sure 
Thy  victory,  yet  thou  canst  not  surely  know. 
For  we  are  all,  like  swimmers  in  the  sea, 
Poised  on  the  top  of  a  huge  wave  of  fate, 
Which  hangs  uncertain  to  which  side  to  fall ; 


SOHRAB   AND   RUSTUM.  73 

And  whether  it  will  heave  us  up  to  land, 

Or  whether  it  will  roll  us  out  to  sea,  — 

Back  out  to  sea,  to  the  deep  waves  of  death,  — 

We  know  not,  and  no  search  will  make  us  know : 

Only  the  event  will  teach  us  in  its  hour." 

He  spoke  ;  and  Rustum  answered  not,  but  hurled 
His  spear:  down  from  the  shoulder,  down  it  came, 
As  on  some  partridge  in  the  corn  a  hawk, 
That  long  has  towered  in  the  airy  clouds, 
Drops  like  a  plummet ;  Sohrab  saw  it  come, 
And  sprang  aside,  quick  as  a  flash  ;  the  spear 
Hissed,  and  went  quivering  down  into  the  sand, 
Which  it  sent  flying  wide.     Then  Sohrab  threw 
In  turn,  and  full  struck  Rustum's  shield  ;  sharp  rang, 
The  iron  plates  rang  sharp,  but  turned  the  spear. 
And  Rustum  seized  his  club,  which  none  but  he 
Could  wield ;  an  unlopped  trunk  it  was,  and  huge, 
Still  rough,  —  like  those  which  men  in  treeless  plains 
To  build  them  boats  fish  from  the  flooded  rivers, 
Hyphasis  or  Hydaspes,  when,  high  up 
By  their  dark  springs,  the  wind  in  winter-time 
Hath  made  in  Himalayan  forests  wrack, 
And  strewn  the  channels  with  torn  boughs,  —  so  huge 
The  club  which  Rustum  lifted  now,  and  struck 
One  stroke  ;  but  again  Sohrab  sprang  aside, 
Lithe  as  the  glancing  snake,  and  the  club  came 
Thundering  to  earth,  and  leapt  from  Rustum's  hand. 
And  Rustum  followed  his  own  blow,  and  fell 
To  his  knees,  and  with  his  fingers  clutched  the  sand. 
And  now  might  Sohrab  have  unsheathed  his  sword, 
And  pierced  the  mighty  Rustum  while  he  lay 
Dizzy,  and  on  his  knees,  and  choked  with  sand  ; 
But  he  looked  on,  and  smiled,  nor  bared  his  sword, 
But  courteously  drew  back,  and  spoke,  and  said,  — 


74  sohrab  and  rustum. 

"Thou  strik'st  too  hard  !  that  club  of  thine  will  float 
Upon  the  summer-floods,  and  not  my  bones. 
But  rise,  and  be  not  wroth  !  not  wroth  am  I ; 
No,  when  I  see  thee,  wrath  forsakes  my  soul. 
Thou  say'st  thou  art  not  Rustum  ;  be  it  so  ! 
Who  art  thou,  then,  that  canst  so  touch  my  soul  ? 
Boy  as  I  am,  I  have  seen  battles  too,  — 
Have  waded  foremost  in  their  bloody  waves, 
And  heard  their  hollow  roar  of  dying  men  ; 
But  never  was  my  heart  thus  touched  before. 
Are  they  from  Heaven,  these  softenings' of  the  heart? 
O  thou  old  warrior,  let  us  yield  to  Heaven  ! 
Come,  plant  we  here  in  earth  our  angry  spears, 
And  make  a  truce,  and  sit  upon  this  sand, 
And  pledge  each  other  in  red  wine,  like  friends, 
And  thou  shalt  talk  to  me  of  Rustum's  deeds. 
There  are  enough  foes  in  the  Persian  host, 
Whom  I  may  meet,  and  strike,  and  feel  no  pang , 
Champions  enough  Afrasiab  has,  whom  thou 
Mayst  fight ;  fight  them,  when  they  confront  thy  spear  ) 
But  oh,  let  there  be  peace  'twixt  thee  and  me  !  " 

He  ceased  ;  but  while  he  spake,  Rustum  had  risen, 
And  stood  erect,  trembling  with  rage ;  his  club 
He  left  to  lie,  but  had  regained  his  spear, 
Whose  fiery  point  now  in  his  mailed  right  hand 
Blazed  bright  and  baleful,  like  that  autumn-star, 
The  baleful  sign  of  fevers  ;  dust  had  soiled 
His  stately  crest,  and  dimmed  his  glittering  arms. 
His  breast  heaved,  his  lips  foamed,  and  twice  his  voice 
Was    choked  with    rage ;    at    last    these   words   brokt-' 
way  :  — 

"Girl  !  nimble  with  thy  feet,  not  with  thy  hands  ! 
Curled  minion,  dancer,  coiner  of  sweet  words  ! 
Fight,  let  me  hear  thy  hateful  voice  no  more  ! 


SOI/RAH  AArD  RUSTUM.  J$ 

Thou  art  not  in  Afrasiab's  gardens  now 

With  Tartar  girls,  with  whom  thou  art  wont  to  dance  ; 

But  on  the  Oxus-sands,  and  in  the  dance 

Of  battle,  and  with  me,  who  make  no  play 

Of  war :   I  fight  it  out,  and  hand  to  hand. 

Speak  not  to  me  of  truce,  and  pledge,  and  wine  ! 

Remember  all  thy  valor ;  try  thy  feints 

And  cunning  !  all  the  pity  I  had  is  gone, 

Because  thou  hast  shamed  me  before  both  the  hosts 

With  thy  light  skipping  tricks  and  thy  girl's  wiles." 

He  spoke ;  and  Sohrab  kindled  at  his  taunts, 
And  he  too  drew  his  sword ;  at  once  they  rushed 
Together,  as  two  eagles  on  one  prey 
Come  rushing  down  together  from  the  clouds, 
One  from  the  east,  one  from  the  west ;  their  shields 
Dashed  with  a  clang  together,  and  a  din 
Rose,  such  as  that  the  sinewy  woodcutters 
Make  often  in  the  forest's  heart  at  morn, 
Of  hewing  axes,  crashing  trees,  —  such  blows 
Rustum  and  Sohrab  on  each  other  hailed. 
And  you  would  say  that  sun  and  stars  took  part 
In  that  unnatural  conflict :  for  a  cloud 
Grew  suddenly  in  heaven,  and  darked  the  sun 
Over  the  fighters'  heads ;  and  a  wind  rose 
Under  their  feet,  and  moaning  swept  the  plain, 
And  in  a  sandy  whirlwind  wrapped  the  pair. 
In  gloom  they  twain  were  wrapped,  and  they  alone  ; 
For  both  the  on-looking  hosts  on  either  hand 
Stood  in  broad  daylight,  and  the  sky  was  pure, 
And  the  sun  sparkled  on  the  Oxus  stream. 
But  in  the  gloom  they  fought,  with  bloodshot  eyes 
And  laboring  breath.     First  Rustum  struck  the  shield 
Which  Sohrab  held  stiff  out ;  the  steel-spiked  spear 
Rent  the  tough  plates,  but  failed  to  reach  the  skin, 


76  SOHRAB   AND   RUSTUM. 

And  Rustum  plucked  it  back  with  angry  groan. 
Then  Sohrab  with  his  sword  smote  Rustum's  helm, 
Nor  clove  its  steel  quite  through  ;  but  all  the  crest 
He  shore  away,  and  that  proud  horse-hair  plume, 
Never  till  now  defiled,  sank  to  the  dust ; 
And  Rustum  bowed  his  head.     But  then  the  gloom 
Grew  blacker,  thunder  rumbled  in  the  air, 
And  lightnings  rent  the  cloud  ;  and  Ruksh  the  horse, 
Who  stood  at  hand,  uttered  a  dreadful  cry : 
No  horse's  cry  was  that,  most  like  the  roar 
Of  some  pained  desert-lion,  who  all  day 
Has  trailed  the  hunter's  javelin  in  his  side, 
And  comes  at  night  to  die  upon  the  sand  ; 
The  two  hosts  heard  that  cry,  and  quaked  for  fear, 
And  Oxus  curdled  as  it  crossed  his  stream. 
But  Sohrab  heard,  and  quailed  not,  but  rushed  on, 
And  struck  again  ;  and  again  Rustum  bowed 
His  head  ;  but  this  time  all  the  blade,  like  glass, 
Sprang  in  a  thousand  shivers  on  the  helm, 
And  in  the  hand  the  hilt  remained  alone. 
Then  Rustum  raised  his  head;  his  dreadful  eyes 
Glared,  and  he  shook  on  high  his  menacing  spear, 
And  shouted,  Rustum  !     Sohrab  heard  that  shout, 
And  shrank  amazed  :  back  he  recoiled  one  step, 
And  scanned  with  blinking  eyes  the  advancing  form  ; 
And  then  he  stood  bewildered,  and  he  dropped 
His  covering  shield,  and  the  spear  pierced  his  side. 
He  reeled,  and  staggering  back  sank  to  the  ground. 
And  then  the  gloom  dispersed,  and  the  wind  fell, 
And  the  bright  sun  broke  forth,  and  melted  all 
The  cloud  ;  and  the  two  armies  saw  the  pair,  — 
Saw  Rustum  standing  safe  upon  his  feet, 
And  Sohrab  wounded  on  the  bloody  sand. 
Then,  with  a  bitter  smile,  Rustum  began,  — 


SOHRAB  AND  RUSTUM.  /7 

"  Sohrab,  thou  thoughtest  in  thy  mind  to  kill 

A  Persian  lord  this  day,  and  strip  his  corpse, 

And  bear  thy  trophies  to  Afrasiab's  tent ; 

Or  else  that  the  great  Rustum  would  come  down 

Himself  to  fight,  and  that  thy  wiles  would  move 

His  heart  to  take  a  gift,  and  let  thee  go. 

And  then  that  all  the  Tartar  host  would  praise 

Thy  courage  or  thy  craft,  and  spread  thy  fame, 

To  glad  thy  father  in  his  weak  old  age. 

Fool,  thou  art  slain,  and  by  an  unknown  man  ! 

Dearer  to  the  red  jackals  shalt  thou  be 

Than  to  thy  friends,  and  to  thy  father  old." 

And,  with  a  fearless  mien,  Sohrab  replied,  — 
"  Unknown  thou  art,  yet  thy  fierce  vaunt  is  vain. 
Thou  dost  not  slay  me,  proud  and  boastful  man  ! 
No  !  Rustum  slays  me,  and  this  filial  heart. 
For,  were  I  matched  with  ten  such  men  as  thee, 
And  I  were  that  which  till  to-day  I  was, 
They  should  be  lying  here,  I  standing  there. 
But  that  beloved  name  unnerved  my  arm,  — 
That  name,  and  something,  I  confess,  in  thee, 
Which  troubles  all  my  heart,  and  made  my  shield 
Fall ;  and  thy  spear  transfixed  an  unarmed  foe. 
And  now  thou  boastest,  and  insult'st  my  fate. 
But  hear  thou  this,  fierce  man,  tremble  to  hear : 
The  mighty  Rustum  shall  avenge  my  death  ! 
My  father,  whom  I  seek  through  all  the  world, 
He  shall  avenge  my  death,  and  punish  thee  !  " 

As  when  some  hunter  in  the  spring  hath  found 
A  breeding  eagle  sitting  on  her  nest, 
Upon  the  craggy  isle  of  a  hill-lake, 
And  pierced  her  with  an  arrow  as  she  rose, 
And  followed  her  to  find  her  where  she  fell 
Far  off;  anon  her  mate  comes  winging  back 


y8  SOHRAB   AND   RUSTUM. 

From  hunting,  and  a  great  way  off  descries 
His  huddling  young  left  sole  ;  at  that,  he  checks 
His  pinion,  and  with  short  uneasy  sweeps 
Circles  above  his  eyry,  with  loud  screams 
Chiding  his  mate  back  to  her  nest ;  but  she 
Lies  dying,  with  the  arrow  in  her  side, 
In  some  far  stony  gorge  out  of  his  ken, 
A  heap  of  fluttering  feathers,  —  never  more 
Shall  the  lake  glass  her,  flying  over  it ; 
Never  the  black  and  dripping  precipices 
Echo  her  stormy  scream  as  she  sails  by,  — 
As  that  poor  bird  flies  home,  nor  knows  his  loss, 
So  Rustum  knew  not  his  own  loss,  but  stood 
Over  his  dying  son,  and  knew  him  not. 

And  with  a  cold,  incredulous  voice,  he  said,  — 
"  What  prate  is  this  of  fathers  and  revenge  ? 
The  mighty  Rustum  never  had  a  son." 

And,  with  a  failing  voice,  Sohrab  replied,  — 
"  Ah,  yes,  he  had  !  and  that  lost  son  am  I. 
Surely  the  news  will  one  day  reach  his  ear,  — 
Reach  Rustum,  where  he  sits,  and  tarries  long, 
Somewhere,  I  know  not  where,  but  far  from  here  ; 
And  pierce  him  like  a  stab,  and  make  him  leap 
To  arms,  and  cry  for  vengeance  upon  thee. 
Fierce  man,  bethink  thee,  for  an  only  son  ! 
What  will  that  grief,  what  will  that  vengeance,  be  ? 
Oh,  could  I  live  till  I  that  grief  had  seen  ! 
Yet  him  I  pity  not  so  much,  but  her, 
My  mother,  who  in  Ader-baijan  dwells 
With  that  old  king,  her  father,  who  grows  gray 
With  age,  and  rules  over  the  valiant  Koords. 
Her  most  I  pity,  who  no  more  will  see 
Sohrab  returning  from  the  Tartar  camp, 
With  spoils  and  honor,  when  the  war  is  done. 


SOHRAB   AND   RUSTUM.  79 

But  a  dark  rumor  will  be  bruited  up, 
From  tribe  to  tribe,  until  it  reach  her  ear  ; 
And  then  will  that  defenceless  woman  learn 
That  Sohrab  will  rejoice  her  sight  no  more  ; 
But  that  in  battle  with  a  nameless  foe, 
By  the  far-distant  Oxus,  he  is  slain." 

He  spoke  ;  and  as  he  ceased,  he  wept  aloud, 
Thinking  of  her  he  left,  and  his  own  death. 
He  spoke ;  but  Rustum  listened,  plunged  in  thought. 
Nor  did  he  yet  believe  it  was  his  son 
Who  spoke,  although  he  called  back  names  he  knew ; 
For  he  had  had  sure  tidings  that  the  babe 
Which  was  in  Ader-baijan  born  to  him 
Had  been  a  puny  girl,  no  boy  at  all  — 
So  that  sad  mother  sent  him  word,  for  fear 
Rustum  should  seek  the  boy,  to  train  in  arms. 
And  so  he  deemed  that  either  Sohrab  took, 
By  a  false  boast,  the  style  of  Rustum's  son ; 
Or  that  men  gave  it  him,  to  swell  his  fame. 
So  deemed  he  :  yet  he  listened,  plunged  in  thought ; 
And  his  soul  set  to  grief,  as  the  vast  tide 
Of  the  bright  rocking  ocean  sets  to  shore 
At  the  full  moon  ;  tears  gathered  in  his  eyes  ; 
For  he  remembered  his  own  early  youth, 
And  all  its  bounding  rapture  ;  as,  at  dawn, 
The  shepherd  from  his  mountain-lodge  descries 
A  far,  bright  city,  smitten  by  the  sun, 
Through  many  rolling  clouds,  —  so  Rustum  saw 
His  youth  ;  saw  Sohrab's  mother  in  her  bloom  ; 
And  that  old  king,  her  father,  who  loved  well 
His  wandering  guest,  and  gave  him  his  fair  child 
With  joy  ;  and  all  the  pleasant  life  they  led, 
They  three,  in  that  long-distant  summer-time, — 
The  castle,  and  the  dewy  woods,  and  hunt 


80  SOIIRAB   AND   RUSTUM. 

And  hound,  and  morn  on  those  delightful  hills 

In  Ader-baijan.     And  he  saw  that  youth, 

Of  age  and  looks  to  be  his  own  dear  son, 

Piteous  and  lovely,  lying  on  the  sand  ; 

Like  some  rich  hyacinth  which  by  the  scythe 

Of  an  unskilful  gardener  has  been  cut, 

Mowing  the  garden  grass-plots  near  its  bed, 

And  lies,  a  fragrant  tower  of  purple  bloom, 

On  the  mown,  dying  grass,  —  so  Sohrab  lay, 

Lovely  in  death,  upon  the  common  sand. 

And  Rustum  gazed  on  him  with  grief,  and  said,  — 

"  O  Sohrab,  thou  indeed  art  such  a  son 
Whom  Rustum,  wert  thou  his,  might  well  have  loved  ! 
Yet  here  thou  errest,  Sohrab,  or  else  men 
Have  told  thee  false  :  thou  art  not  Rustum's  son. 
For  Rustum  had  no  son  :  one  child  he  had,  — 
But  one,  —  a  girl ;  who  with  her  mother  now 
Plies  some  light  female  task,  nor  dreams  of  us,  — 
Of  us  she  dreams  not,  nor  of  wounds,  nor  war." 

But  Sohrab  answered  him  in  wrath  ;  for  now 
The  anguish  of  the  deep-fixed  spear  grew  fierce, 
And  he  desired  to  draw  forth  the  steel, 
And  let  the  blood  flow  free,  and  so  to  die. 
But  first  he  would  convince  his  stubborn  foe ; 
And,  rising  sternly  on  one  arm,  he  said,  — 

"Man,  who  art  thou  who  dost  deny  my  words? 
Truth  sits  upon  the  lips  of  dying  men  ; 
And  falsehood,  while  I  lived,  was  far  from  mine. 
I  tell  thee,  pricked  upon  this  arm  I  bear 
That  seal  which  Rustum  to  my  mother  gave, 
That  she  might  prick  it  on  the  babe  she  bore." 

He  spoke  ;  and  all  the  blood  left  Rustum's  cheeks, 
And  his  knees  tottered,  and  he  smote  his  hand 
Against  his  breast,  his  heavy  mailed  hand, 


SOHRAB   AND  RUSTUM.  8 1 

That  the  hard  iron  corslet  clanked  aloud ; 
And  to  his  heart  he  pressed  the  other  hand, 
And  in  a  hollow  voice  he  spake,  and  said,  — 

"  Sohrab,  that  were  a  proof  which  could  not  lie  ! 
If  thou  show  this,  then  art  thou  Rustum's  son." 

Then,  with  weak  hasty  fingers,  Sohrab  loosed 
His  belt,  and  near  the  shoulder  bared  his  arm, 
And  showed  a  sign  in  faint  vermilion  points 
Pricked  ;  as  a  cunning  workman,  in  Pekin, 
Pricks  with  vermilion  some  clear  porcelain  vase, 
An  emperor's  gift,  —  at  early  morn  he  paints, 
And  all  day  long,  and,  when  night  comes,  the  lamp 
Lights  up  his  studious  forehead  and  thin  hands,  — 
So  delicately  pricked  the  sign  appeared 
On  Sohrab's  arm,  the  sign  of  Rustum's  seal. 
It  was  that  griffin  which  of  old  reared  Zal, 
Rustum's  great  father,  whom  they  left  to  die, 
A  helpless  babe,  among  the  mountain  rocks ; 
Him  that  kind  creature  found,  and  reared,  and  loved ; 
Then  Rustum  took  it  for  his  glorious  sign. 
And  Sohrab  bared  that  image  on  his  arm, 
And  himself  scanned  it  long  with  mournful  eyes, 
And  then  he  touched  it  with  his  hand,  and  said,  — 

"  How  say'st  thou  ?     Is  that  sign  the  proper  sign 
Of  Rustum's  son,  or  of  some  other  man's?  " 

He  spoke  ;  but  Rustum  gazed,  and  gazed,  and  stood 
Speechless  ;  and  then  he  uttered  one  sharp  cry,  — 
O  boy  —  thy  father  I  and  his  voice  choked  there. 
And  then  a  dark  cloud  passed  before  his  eyes, 
And  his  head  swam,  and  he  sank  down  to  earth. 
But  Sohrab  crawled  to  where  he  lay,  and  cast 
His  arms  about  his  neck,  and  kissed  his  lips, 
And  with  fond  faltering  fingers  stroked  his  cheeks, 
Trying  to  call  him  back  to  life  j  and  life 


82  SOHRAB   AND   RUSTUM. 

Came  back  to  Rustum,  and  he  oped  his  eyes, 

And  they  stood  wide  with  horror ;  and  he  seized 

In  both  his  hands  the  dust  which  lay  around, 

And  threw  it  on  his  head,  and  smirched  his  hair,  — 

His  hair,  and  face,  and  beard,  and  glittering  arms ; 

And  strong  convulsive  groanings  shook  his  breast, 

And  his  sobs  choked  him ;  and  he  clutched  his  sword, 

To  draw  it,  and  forever  let  life  out. 

But  Sohrab  saw  his  thought,  and  held  his  hands, 

And  with  a  soothing  voice  he  spake,  and  said,  — 

"  Father,  forbear  !  for  I  but  meet  to-day 
The  doom  which  at  my  birth  was  written  down 
In  Heaven,  and  thou  art  Heaven's  unconscious  hand. 
Surely  my  heart  cried  out  that  it  was  thou, 
When  first  I  saw  thee  ;  and  thy  heart  spoke  too, 
I  know  it !     But  fate  trod  those  promptings  down 
Under  its  iron  heel ;  fate,  fate  engaged 
The  strife,  and  hurled  me  on  my  father's  spear. 
But  let  us  speak  no  more  of  this.     I  find 
My  father,  let  me  feel  that  I  have  found  ! 
Come,  sit  beside  me  on  this  sand,  and  take 
My  head  betwixt  thy  hands,  and  kiss  my  cheeks, 
And  wash  them  with  thy  tears,  and  say,  My  son  ! 
Quick,  quick  !  for  numbered  are  my  sands  of  life, 
And  swift ;  for  like  the  lightning  to  this  field 
I  came,  and  like  the  wind  I  go  away,  — 
Sudden,  and  swift,  and  like  a  passing  wind ; 
But  it  was  writ  in  Heaven  that  this  should  be." 

So  said  he ;  and  his  voice  released  the  heart 
Of  Rustum,  and  his  tears  broke  forth  ;  he  cast 
His  arms  round  his  son's  neck,  and  wept  aloud, 
And  kissed  him.     And  awe  fell  on  both  the  hosts, 
When  they  saw  Rustum's  grief;  and  Ruksh,  the  horse, 
With  his  head  bowing  to  the  ground,  and  mane 


SOHRAB   AND    RUSTUM.  83 

Sweeping  the  dust,  came  near,  and  in  mute  woe 

First  to  the  one,  then  to  the  other,  moved 

His  head,  as  if  inquiring  what  their  grief 

Might  mean ;  and  from  his  dark,  compassionate  eyes, 

The  big  warm  tears  rolled  down,  and  caked  the  sand. 

But  Rustum  chid  him  with  stern  voice,  and  said,  — 

"  Ruksh,  now  thou  grievest ;  but,  O  Ruksh,  thy  feet 
Should  then  have  rotted  on  their  nimble  joints, 
When  first  they  bore  thy  master  to  this  field  !  " 

But  Sohrab  looked  upon  the  horse,  and  said,  — 
"  Is  this,  then,  Ruksh  ?     How  often,  in  past  days, 
My  mother  told  me  of  thee,  thou  brave  steed, 
My  terrible  father's  terrible  horse  !  and  said, 
That  I  should  one  day  find  thy  lord  and  thee. 
Come,  let  me  lay  my  hand  upon  thy  mane  ! 
O  Ruksh,  thou  art  more  fortunate  than  I  ! 
For  thou  hast  gone  where  I  shall  never  go, 
And  snuffed  the  breezes  of  my  father's  home. 
And  thou  hast  trod  the  sands  of  Seistan, 
And  seen  the  River  of  Helmund,  and  the  Lake 
Of  Zirrah  ;  and  the  aged  Zal  himself 
Has  often  stroked  thy  neck,  and  given  thee  food, 
Corn  in  a  golden  platter,  soaked  with  wine, 
And  said,  O  Ruksh  !  bear  Rustum  well !     But  I 
Have  never  known  my  grandsire's  furrowed  face, 
Nor  seen  his  lofty  house  in  Seistan, 
Nor  slaked  my  thirst  at  the  clear  Helmund  stream ; 
But  lodged  among  my  father's  foes,  and  seen 
Afrasiab's  cities  only,  Samarcand, 
Bokhara,  and  lone  Khiva  in  the  waste, 
And  the  black  Toorkmun  tents ;  and  only  drunk 
The  desert  rivers,  Moorghab  and  Tejend, 
Kohik,  and  where  the  Kalmuks  feed  their  sheep, 
The  northern  Sir ;  and  this  great  Oxus  stream, 
The  yellow  Oxus,  by  whose  brink  I  die." 


84  SOHRAB   AND   RUSTUM. 

Then,  with  a  heavy  groan,  Rustum  bewailed,  — 
"  Oh  that  its  waves  were  flowing  over  me  ! 
Oh  that  I  saw  its  grains  of  yellow  silt 
Roll  tumbling  in  the  current  o'er  my  head  !" 

But,  with  a  grave  mild  voice,  Sohrab  replied,  — 
"  Desire  not  that,  my  father  !  thou  must  live. 
For  some  are  born  to  do  great  deeds,  and  live 
As  some  are  born  to  be  obscured,  and  die. 
Do  thou  the  deeds  I  die  too  young  to  do, 
And  reap  a  second  glory  in  thine  age ; 
Thou  art  my  father,  and  thy  gain  is  mine. 
But  come  !  thou  seest  this  great  host  of  men 
Which  follow  me  ;  I  pray  thee,  slay  not  these  ! 
Let  me  entreat  for  them  :  what  have  they  done  ? 
They  followed  me,  my  hope,  my  fame,  my  star. 
Let  them  all  cross  the  Oxus  back  in  peace. 
But  me  thou  must  bear  hence,  not  send  with  them, 
But  carry  me  with  thee  to  Seistan, 
And  place  me  on  a  bed,  and  mourn  for  me,  — 
Thou,  and  the  snow-haired  Zal,  and  all  thy  friends. 
And  thou  must  lay  me  in  that  lovely  earth, 
And  heap  a  stately  mound  above  my  bones, 
And  plant  a  far-seen  pillar  over  all ; 
That  so  the  passing  horseman  on  the  waste 
May  see  my  tomb  a  great  way  off,  and  cry,  — 
Sohrab,  the  mighty  Ri/s turn's  son,  tics  there, 
Whom  his  great  father  did  in  ignorance  kill ! 
And  I  be  not  forgotten  in  my  grave." 

And,  with  a  mournful  voice,  Rustum  replied,  — 
"  Fear  not !  as  thou  hast  said,  Sohrab  my  son, 
So  shall  it  be  ;  for  I  will  burn  my  tents, 
And  quit  the  host,  and  bear  thee  hence  with  me, 
And  carry  thee  away  to  Seistan, 
And  place  thee  on  a  bed,  and  mourn  for  thee, 


SOIIKAB   AND   RUSTUM.  85 

With  the  snow-headed  Zal,  and  all  my  friends. 

And  I  will  lay  thee  in  that  lovely  earth, 

And  heap  a  stately  mound  above  thy  bones, 

And  plant  a  far-seen  pillar  over  all, 

And  men  shall  not  forget  thee  in  thy  grave. 

And  I  will  spare  thy  host ;  yea,  let  them  go  ! 

Let  them  all  cross  the  Oxus  back  in  peace  ! 

What  should  I  do  with  slaying  any  more  ? 

For  would  that  all  whom  I  have  ever  slain 

Might  be  once  more  alive,  —  my  bitterest  foes, 

And  they  who  were  called  champions  in  their  time, 

And  through  whose  death  I  won  that  fame  I  have,  — 

And  I  were  nothing  but  a  common  man, 

A  poor,  mean  soldier,  and  without  renown, 

So  thou  mightest  live  too,  my  son,  my  son  ! 

Or  rather  would  that  I,  even  I  myself, 

Might  now  be  lying  on  this  bloody  sand, 

Near  death,  and  by  an  ignorant  stroke  of  thine, 

Not  thou  of  mine  !  and  I  might  die,  not  thou ; 

And  I,  not  thou,  be  borne  to  Seistan ; 

And  Zal  might  weep  above  my  grave,  not  thine ; 

And  say,  O  son,  I  weep  thee  not  too  sore, 

For  willingly,  I  know,  thou  mefst  thine  end  ! 

But  now  in  blood  and  battles  was  my  youth, 

And  full  of  blood  and  battles  is  my  age, 

And  I  shall  never  end  this  life  of  blood." 

Then,  at  the  point  of  death,  Sohrab  replied,  — 
"  A  life  of  blood  indeed,  thou  dreadful  man  ! 
But  thou  shalt  yet  have  peace ;  only  not  now, 
Not  yet !  but  thou  shalt  have  it  on  that  day, 
When  thou  shalt  sail  in  a  high-masted  ship, 
Thou  and  the  other  peers  of  Kai  Khosroo, 
Returning  home  over  the  salt  blue  sea, 
From  laying  thy  dear  master  in  his  grave," 


86  SOHRAB   AND   RUSTUM. 

And  Rustum  gazed  in  Sohrab's  face,  and  said,  — 
"Soon  be  that  day,  my  son,  and  deep  that  sea ! 
Till  then,  if  fate  so  wills,  let  me  endure." 

He  spoke  ;  and  Sohrab  smiled  on  him,  and  took 
The  spear,  and  drew  it  from  his  side,  and  eased 
His  wound's  imperious  anguish ;  but  the  blood 
Came  welling  from  the  open  gash,  and  life 
Flowed  with  the  stream  ;  all  down  his  cold  white  side 
The  crimson  torrent  ran,  dim  now  and  soiled, 
Like  the  soiled  tissue  of  white  violets 
Left,  freshly  gathered,  on  their  native  bank, 
By  children  whom  their  nurses  call  with  haste 
In-doors  from  the  sun's  eye ;  his  head  drooped  low, 
His  limbs  grew  slack ;  motionless,  white,  he  lay,  — 
White,  with  eyes  closed ;  only  when  heavy  gasps, 
Deep  heavy  gasps  quivering  through  all  his  frame, 
Convulsed  him  back  to  life,  he  opened  them, 
And  fixed  them  feebly  on  his  father's  face  ; 
Till  now  all  strength  was  ebbed,  and  from  his  limbs 
Unwillingly  the  spirit  fled  away, 
Regretting  the  warm  mansion  which  it  left, 
And  youth,  and  bloom,  and  this  delightful  world. 

So,  on  the  bloody  sand,  Sohrab  lay  dead ; 
And  the  great  Rustum  drew  his  horseman's  cloak 
Down  o'er  his  face,  and  sate  by  his  dead  son. 
As  those  black  granite  pillars,  once  high-reared 
By  Jemshid  in  Persepolis,  to  bear 
His  house,  now  'mid  their  broken  flights  of  steps 
Lie  prone,  enormous,  down  the  mountain  side,  — 
So  in  the  sand  lay  Rustum  by  his  son. 

And  night  came  down  over  the  solemn  waste, 
And  the  two  gazing  hosts,  and  that  sole  pair, 
And  darkened  all ;  and  a  cold  fog,  with  night, 
Crept  from  the  Oxus.     Soon  a  hum  arose, 


SOHRAB    AND   RUSTUM.  87 

As  of  a  great  assembly  loosed,  and  fires 
Began  to  twinkle  through  the  fog ;  for  now 
Both  armies  moved  to  camp,  and  took  their  meal ; 
The  Persians  took  it  on  the  open  sands 
Southward,  the  Tartars  by  the  river-marge ; 
And  Rustum  and  his  son  were  left  alone. 

But  the  majestic  river  floated  on, 
Out  of  the  mist  and  hum  of  that  low  land, 
Into  the  frosty  starlight,  and  there  moved, 
Rejoicing,  through  the  hushed  Chorasmian  waste, 
Under  the  solitary  moon  ;  he  flowed 
Right  for  the  polar  star,  past  Orgunje, 
Brimming,  and  bright,  and  large ;  then  sands  begin 
To  hem  his  watery  march,  and  dam  his  streams, 
And  split  his  currents  ;  that  for  many  a  league 
The  shorn  and  parcelled  Oxus  strains  along 
Through  beds  of  sand  and  matted  rushy  isles,  — 
Oxus,  forgetting  the  bright  speed  he  had 
In  his  high  mountain  cradle  in  Pamere, 
A  foiled  circuitous  wanderer,  —  till  at  last 
The  longed-for  dash  of  waves  is  heard,  and  wide 
His  luminous  home  of  waters  opens,  bright 
And  tranquil,  from  whose  floor  the  new-bathed  stars 
Emerge,  and  shine  upon  the  Aral  Sea. 


88  THE  SICK  KING   IN  BOKHARA. 


THE  SICK  KING  IN  BOKHARA, 


HUSSEIN. 

O  most  just  vizier,  send  away 
The  cloth-merchants,  and  let  them  be, 
Them  and  their  dues,  this  day  !  the  king 
Is  ill  at  ease,  and  calls  for  thee. 

THE   VIZIER. 

O  merchants,  tarry  yet  a  day 
Here  in  Bokhara  !  but  at  noon 
To-morrow  come,  and  ye  shall  pay 
Each  fortieth  web  of  cloth  to  me, 
As  the  law  is,  and  go  your  way. 

O  Hussein,  lead  me  to  the  king  ! 
Thou  teller  of  sweet  tales,  thine  own, 
Ferdousi's,  and  the  others',  lead  ! 
How  is  it  with  my  lord  ? 

HUSSEIN. 

Alone, 
Ever  since  prayer-time,  he  doth  wait, 
O  vizier  !  without  lying  down, 
In  the  great  window  of  the  gate, 
Looking  into  the  Registan, 
Where  through  the  sellers'  booths  the  slaves 
Are  this  way  bringing  the  dead  man 
O  vizier,  here  is  the  king's  door  ! 


THE   SICK  KING   IN  BOKHARA.  89 

THE  KING. 
O  vizier,  I  may  bury  him  ? 

THE   VIZIER. 

O  king,  thou  knovv'st,  I  have  been  sick 
These  many  days,  and  heard  no  thing 
(For  Allah  shut  my  ears  and  mind), 
Not  even  what  thou  dost,  O  king  ! 
Wherefore,  that  I  may  counsel  thee, 
Let  Hussein,  if  thou  wilt,  make  haste 
To  speak  in  order  what  hath  chanced. 

THE   KING. 

O  vizier,  be  it  as  thou  say'st ! 

HUSSEIN. 

Three  days  since,  at  the  time  of  prayer, 

A  certain  Moollah,  with  his  robe 

All  rent,  and  dust  upon  his  hair, 

Watched  my  lord's  coming  forth,  and  pushed 

The  golden  mace-bearers  aside, 

And  fell  at  the  king's  feet,  and  cried, — 

"Justice,  O  king,  and  on  myself! 
On  this  great  sinner,  who  did  break 
The  law,  and  by  the  law  must  die  ! 
Vengeance,  O  king  !  " 

But  the  king  spake  : 
"  What  fool  is  this,  that  hurts  our  ears 
With  folly  ?  or  what  drunken  slave  ? 
My  guards,  what !  prick  him  with  your  spears  ! 
Prick  me  the  fellow  from  the  path  ! " 


go  THE  SICK  KING   TN  BOKHARA. 

As  the  king  said,  so  was  it  done, 

And  to  the  mosque  my  lord  passed  on. 

But  on  the  morrow,  when  the  king 
Went  forth  again,  the  holy  book 
Carried  before  him,  as  is  right, 
And  through  the  square  his  way  he  took  ; 

My  man  comes  running,  flecked  with  blood 
From  yesterday,  and  falling  down 
Cries  out  most  earnestly,  "  O  king, 
My  lord,  O  king,  do  right,  I  pray  ! 

"  How  canst  thou,  ere  thou  hear,  discern 
If  I  speak  folly  ?  but  a  king, 
Whether  a  thing  be  great  or  small, 
Like  Allah,  hears  and  judges  all. 

"  Wherefore  hear  thou  !  Thou  know'st,  how  fierce 

In  these  last  days  the  sun  hath  burned ; 

That  the  green  water  in  the  tanks 

Is  to  a  putrid  puddle  turned  ; 

And  the  canal,  that  from  the  stream 

Of  Samarcand  is  brought  this  way, 

Wastes  and  runs  thinner  every  clay. 

'Now  I  at  nightfall  had  gone  forth 
Alone,  and  in  a  darksome  place 
Under  some  mulberry-trees  I  found 
A  little  pool ;  and  in  short  space 
With  all  the  water  that  was  there 
I  filled  my  pitcher,  and  stole  home 
Unseen  ;  and  having  drink  to  spare. 
I  hid  the  can  behind  the  door, 
And  went  up  on  the  roof  to  sleep. 


THE  SICK  KING   IN  BOKHARA.  9 1 

"  But  in  the  night,  which  was  with  wind 
And  burning  dust,  again  I  creep 
Down,  having  fever,  for  a  drink. 

"  Now,  meanwhile  had  my  brethren  found 
The  water-pitcher,  where  it  stood 
Behind  the  door  upon  the  ground, 
And  called  my  mother ;  and  they  all, 
As  they  were  thirsty,  and  the  night 
Most  sultry,  drained  the  pitcher  there  ; 
That  they  sate  with  it,  in  my  sight, 
Their  lips  still  wet,  when  I  came  down. 

"  Now  mark  !     I,  being  fevered,  sick, 

(Most  unblest  also),  at  that  sight 

Brake  forth,  and  cursed  them  — dost  thou  hear?— 

One  was  my  mother. Now  do  right !  " 

But  my  lord  mused  a  space,  and  said,  — 
"  Send  him  away,  sirs,  and  make  on  ! 
It  is  some  madman,"  the  king  said. 
As  the  king  bade,  so  was  it  done. 

The  morrow,  at  the  self-same  hour, 
In  the  king's  path,  behold,  the  man, 
Not  kneeling,  sternly  fixed  !     He  stood 
Right  opposite,  and  thus  began, 
Frowning  grim  down  :  "  Thou  wicked  king. 
Most  deaf  where  thou  shouldst  most  give  ear  ! 
What  !  must  I  howl  in  the  next  world, 
Because  thou  wilt  not  listen  here  ? 

"  What  !  wilt  thou  pray,  and  get  thee  grace, 
And  all  grace  shall  to  me  be  grudged? 
Nay,  but  I  swear,  from  this  thy  path 
I  will  not  stir  till  I  be  judged  !  " 


92  77/ E  SICK  KING    IN  BOKHARA. 

Then  they  who  stood  about  the  king 
Drew  close  together,  and  conferred ; 
Till  that  the  king  stood  forth,  and  said, 
"  Before  the  priests  thou  shalt  be  heard.' 

But  when  the  Ulemas  were  met, 
And  the  thing  heard,  they  doubted  not ; 
But  sentenced  him,  as  the  law  is, 
To  die  by  stoning  on  the  spot. 

Now  the  king  charged  us  secretly  : 
"  Stoned  must  he  be,  the  law  stands  so. 
Yet,  if  he  seek  to  fly,  give  way  : 
Hinder  him  not,  but  let  him  go." 

So  saying,  the  king  took  a  stone, 

And  cast  it  softly ;  but  the  man, 

With  a  great  joy  upon  his  face, 

Kneeled  down,  and  cried  not,  neither  ran. 

So  they,  whose  lot  it  was,  cast  stones, 
That  they  flew  thick,  and  bruised  him  sorec 
But  he  praised  Allah  with  loud  voice, 
And  remained  kneeling  as  before. 

My  lord  had  covered  up  his  face ; 
But  when  one  told  him,  "  He  is  dead," 
Turning  him  quickly  to  go  in, 
"  Bring  thou  to  me  his  corpse,"  he  said. 

And  truly,  while  I  speak,  O  king, 

I  hear  the  bearers  on  the  stair : 

Wilt  thou  they  straightway  bring  him  in? 

—  Ho  !  enter  ye  who  tarry  there  i 


THE  SICK  KING  IN  BOKHARA.  93 

THE    VIZIER. 

O  king,  in  this  I  praise  thee  not ! 
Now  must  I  call  thy  grief  not  wise. 
Is  he  thy  friend,  or  of  thy  blood, 
To  find  such  favor  in  thine  eyes  ? 

Nay,  were  he  thine  own  mother's  son, 
Still  thou  art  king,  and  the  law  stands. 
It  were  not  meet  the  balance  swerved, 
The  sword  were  broken  in  thy  hands. 

But  being  nothing,  as  he  is, 
Why  for  no  cause  make  sad  thy  face  ? 
Lo,  I  am  old  !  three  kings  ere  thee 
Have  I  seen  reigning  in  this  place. 

But  who,  through  all  this  length  of  time, 
Could  bear  the  burden  of  his  years, 
If  he  for  strangers  pained  his  heart 
Not  less  than  those  who  merit  tears  ? 

Fathers  we  must  have,  wife  and  child, 
And  grievous  is  the  grief  for  these  ; 
This  pain  alone,  which  must  be  borne, 
Makes  the  head  white,  and  bows  the  knees. 

But  other  loads  than  this  his  own, 
One  man  is  not  well  made  to  bear. 
Besides,  to  each  are  his  own  friends, 
To  mourn  with  him,  and  show  him  care. 

Look,  this  is  but  one  single  place, 
Though  it  be  great ;  all  the  earth  round, 
If  a  man  bear  to  have  it  so, 
Things  which  might  vex  him  shall  be  found. 


94  THE  SICK  KING  IN  BOKHARA. 

Upon  the  Russian  frontier,  where 
The  watchers  of  two  armies  .stand 
Near  one  another,  many  a  man, 
Seeking  a  prey  unto  his  hand, 

Hath  snatched  a  little  fair-haired  slave ; 
They  snatch  also,  towards  Merve, 
The  Shiah  dogs,  who  pasture  sheep, 
And  up  from  thence  to  Orgunje. 

And  these  all,  laboring  for  a  lord, 
Eat  not  the  fruit  of  their  own  hands  ; 
Which  is  the  heaviest  of  all  plagues, 
To  that  man's  mind  who  understands. 

The  kaffirs  also  (whom  God  curse  !) 
Vex  one  another,  night  and  day  ; 
There  are  the  lepers,  and  all  sick  ; 
There  are  the  poor,  who  faint  alway. 

All  these  have  sorrow,  and  keep  still, 
Whilst  other  men  make  cheer,  and  sing. 
Wilt  thou  have  pity  on  all  these  ? 
No,  nor  on  this  dead  dog,  O  king  ! 

THE   KING. 

O  vizier,  thou  art  old,  I  young  ! 
Clear  in  these  things  I  cannot  see. 
My  head  is  burning,  and  a  heat 
Is  in  my  skin  which  angers  me. 

But  hear  ye  this,  ye  sons  of  men  ! 
They  that  bear  rule,  and  are  obeyed, 
Unto  a  rule  more  strong  than  theirs 
Are  in  their  turn  obedient  made. 


THE  SICK  KING   IN  BOKHARA.  95 

In  vain  therefore,  with  wistful  eyes 
Gazing  up  hither,  the  poor  man, 
Who  loiters  by  the  high-heaped  booths, 
Below  there,  in  the  Registan,  — 

Says,  "  Happy  he  who  lodges  there  ! 
With  silken  raiment,  store  of  rice, 
And  for  this  drought,  all  kinds  of  fruits, 
Grape-sirup,  squares  of  colored  ice,  — 

"  With  cherries  served  in  drifts  of  snow." 
In  vain  hath  a  king  power  to  build 
Houses,  arcades,  enamelled  mosques  ; 
And  to  make  orchard-closes,  filled 

With  curious  fruit-trees  brought  from  far. 
With  cisterns  for  the  winter-rain, 
And,  in  the  desert,  spacious  inns 
In  divers  places,  —  if  that  pain 

Is  not  more  lightened,  which  he  feels, 
If  his  will  be  not  satisfied ; 
And  that  it  be  not,  from  all  time 
The  law  is  planted,  to  abide. 

Thou  wast  a  sinner,  thou  poor  man  ! 
Thou  wast  athirst ;  and  didst  not  see, 
That,  though  we  take  what  we  desire, 
We  must  not  snatch  it  eagerly. 

And  I  have  meat  and  drink  at  will, 
And  rooms  of  treasures,  not  a  few. 
But  I  am  sick,  nor  heed  I  these ; 
And  what  I  would,  I  cannot  do. 


96  BALDER  DEAD. 

Even  the  great  honor  which  I  have, 
When  I  am  dead,  will  soon  grow  still  \ 
So  have  I  neither  joy,  nor  fame.     . 
But  what  I  can  do,  that  I  will. 

I  have  a  fretted  brick-work  tomb 
Upon  a  hill  on  the  right  hand, 
Hard  by  a  close  of  apricots, 
Upon  the  road  of  Samarcand ; 

Thither,  O  vizier,  will  I  bear 
This  man  my  pity  could  not  save, 
And,  plucking  up  the  marble  flags, 
There  lay  his  body  in  my  grave. 

Bring  water,  nard,  and  linen-rolls  ! 
Wash  off  all  blood,  set  smooth  each  limb  ! 
Then  say,  "  He  was  not  wholly  vile, 
Because  a  king  shall  bury  him." 


BALDER  DEAD.b 
I.  SENDING. 

So  on  the  floor  lay  Balder  dead  ;  and  round 
Lay  thickly  strewn  swords,  axes,  darts,  and  spears, 
Which  all  the  gods  in  sport  had  idly  thrown 
At  Balder,  whom  no  weapon  pierced  or  clove  ; 
But  in  his  breast  stood  fixed  the  fatal  bough 
Of  mistletoe,  which  Lok  the  Accuser  gave 
To  Hoder,  ami  unwitting  Hoder  threw  — 
'Gainst  that  alone  had  Balder's  life  no  charm. 


BALDER   DEAD.  97 

And  all  the  gods  and  all  the  heroes  came, 
And  stood  round  Balder  on  the  bloody  floor, 
Weeping  and  wailing ;  and  Valhalla  rang 
Up  to  its  golden  roof  with  sobs  and  cries ; 
And  on  the  tables  stood  the  untasted  meats, 
And  in  the  horns  and  gold-rimmed  sculls  the  wine. 
And  now  would  night  have  fallen,  and  found  them  yet 
Wailing ;  but  otherwise  was  Odin's  will.  • 
And  thus  the  Father  of  the  ages  spake  :  — 

"  Enough  of  tears,  ye  gods,  enough  of  wail ! 
Not  to  lament  in  was  Valhalla  made. 
If  any  here  might  weep  for  Balder's  death, 
I  most  might  weep,  his  father ;  such  a  son 
I  lose  to-day,  so  bright,  so  loved  a  god. 
But  he  has  met  that  doom  which  long  ago 
The  Nornies,  when  his  mother  bare  him,  spun, 
And  fate  set  seal,  that  so  his  end  must  be. 
Balder  has  met  his  death,  and  ye  survive. 
Weep  him  an  hour,  but  what  can  grief  avail  ? 
For  ye  yourselves,  ye  gods,  shall  meet  your  doom,  — 
All  ye  who  hear  me,  and  inhabit  heaven, 
And  I  too,  Odin  too,  the  lord  of  all. 
But  ours  we  shall  not  meet,  when  that  day  comes, 
With  women's  tears  and  weak  complaining  cries  : 
Why  should  we  meet  another's  portion  so  ? 
Rather  it  fits  you,  having  wept  your  hour, 
With  cold  dry  eyes,  and  hearts  composed  and  stern, 
To  live,  as  erst,  your  daily  life  in  heaven. 
By  me  shall  vengeance  on  the  murderer  Lok, 
The  foe,  the  accuser,  whom,  though  gods,  we  hate, 
Be  strictly  cared  for,  in  the  appointed  day. 
Meanwhile,  to-morrow,  when  the  morning  dawns, 
Bring  wood  to  the  seashore  to  Balder's  ship, 
And  on  the  deck  build  high  a  funeral  pile, 


9$  BALDER   DEAD. 

And  on  the  top  lay  Balder's  corpse,  and  put 
Fire  to  the  wood,  and  send  him  out  to  sea 
To  burn  ;  for  that  is  what  the  dead  desire." 

So  spake  the  king  of  gods,  and  straightway  rose, 
And  mounted  his  horse  Sleipner,  whom  he  rode ; 
And  from  the  hall  of  heaven  he  rode  away 
To  Lidskialf,  and  sate  upon  his  throne, 
The  mount,  from  whence  his  eye  surveys  the  world. 
And  far  from  heaven  he  turned  his  shining  orbs 
To  look  on  Midgard,  and  the  earth,  and  men. 
And  on  the  conjuring  Lapps  he  bent  his  gaze, 
Whom  antlered  reindeer  pull  over  the  snow ; 
And  on  the  Finns,  the  gentlest  of  mankind, 
Fair  men,  who  live  in  holes  under  the  ground ; 
Nor  did  he  look  once  more  to  Ida's  plain, 
Nor  toward  Valhalla  and  the  sorrowing  gods  ; 
For  well  he  knew  the  gods  would  heed  his  word, 
And  cease  to  mourn,  and  think  of  Balder's  pyre- 

But  in  Valhalla  all  the  gods  went  back 
From  around  Balder,  all  the  heroes  went ; 
And  left  his  body  stretched  upon  the  floor. 
And  on  their  golden  chairs  they  sate  again, 
Beside  the  tables,  in  the  hall  of  heaven ; 
And  before  each  the  cooks  who  served  them  placed 
New  messes  of  the  boar  Serimner's  flesh, 
And  the  Valkyries  crowned  their  horns  with  mead. 
So  they,  with  pent-up  hearts  and  tearless  eyes, 
Wailing  no  more,  in  silence  ate  and  drank, 
While  twilight  fell,  and  sacred  night  came  on. 

But  the  blind  Hoder  left  the  feasting  gods 
In  Odin's  hall,  and  went  through  Asgard  streets, 
And  past  the  haven  where  the  gods  have  moored 
Their  ships,  and  through  the  gate,  beyond  the  wall ; 
Though  sightless,  yet  his  own  mind  led  the  god. 


BALDER   DEAD.  99 

Down  to  the  margin  of  the  roaring  sea 

He  came,  and  sadly  went  along  the  sand, 

Between  the  waves  and  black  o'erhanging  cliffs 

Where  in  and  out  the  screaming  seafowl  fly ; 

Until  he  came  to  where  a  gully  breaks 

Through  the  cliff-wall,  and  a  fresh  stream  runs  down 

From  the  high  moors  behind,  and  meets  the  sea. 

There,  in  the  glen,  Fensaler  stands,  the  house 

Of  Frea,  honored  mother  of  the  gods, 

And  shows  its  lighted  windows  to  the  main. 

There  he  went  up,  and  passed  the  open  doors ; 

And  in  the  hall  he  found  those  women  old, 

The  prophetesses,  who  by  rite  eterne 

On  Frea's  hearth  feed  high  the  sacred  fire 

Both  night  and  day ;  and  by  the  inner  wall 

Upon  her  golden  chair  the  mother  sate, 

With  folded  hands,  revolving  things  to  come. 

To  her  drew  Hoder  near,  and  spake,  and  said,  — 

"  Mother,  a  child  of  bale  thou  bar'st  in  me  ! 
For,  first,  thou  barest  me  with  blinded  eyes, 
Sightless  and  helpless,  wandering  weak  in  heaven ; 
And,  after  that,  of  ignorant  witless  mind 
Thou  barest  me,  and  unforeseeing  soul ; 
That  I  alone  must  take  the  branch  from  Lok, 
The  foe,  the  accuser,  whom,  though  gods,  we  hate, 
And  cast  it  at  the  dear-loved  Balder's  breast, 
At  whom  the  gods  in  sport  their  weapons  threw. 
'Gainst  that  alone  had  Balder's  life  no  charm. 
Now  therefore  what  to  attempt,  or  whither  fly, 
For  who  will  bear  my  hateful  sight  in  heaven  ? 
Can  I,  O  mother,  bring  them  Balder  back? 
Or  —  for  thou  know'st  the  fates,  and  things  allowed  — 
Can  I  with  Hela's  power  a  compact  strike, 
And  make  exchange,  and  give  my  life  for  his?  " 


IOO  BALDER   DEAD. 

He  spoke  :  the  mother  of  the  gods  replied,  — 
"  Hoder,  ill-fated,  child  of  bale,  my  son, 
Sightless  in  soul  and  eye,  what  words  are  these  ? 
That  one,  long  portioned  with  his  doom  of  death, 
Should  change  his  lot,  and  fill  another's  life, 
And  Hela  yield  to  this,  and  let  him  go  ! 
On  Balder,  Death  hath  laid  her  hand,  not  thee ; 
Nor  doth  she  count  this  life  a  price  for  that. 
For  many  gods  in  heaven,  not  thou  alone, 
Would  freely  die  to  purchase  Balder  back, 
And  wend  themselves  to  Hela's  gloomy  realm. 
For  not  so  gladsome  is  that  life  in  heaven 
Which  gods  and  heroes  lead,  in  feast  and  fray, 
Waiting  the  darkness  of  the  final  times, 
That  one  should  grudge  its  loss  for  Balder's  sake,  — 
Balder  their  joy,  so  bright,  so  loved  a  god. 
But  fate  withstands,  and  laws  forbid  this  way. 
Yet  in  my  secret  mind  one  way  I  know, 
Nor  do  I  judge  if  it  shall  win  or  fail ; 
But  much  must  still  be  tried,  which  shall  but  fail." 

And  the  blind  Hoder  answered  her,  and  said,  — 
"  What  way  is  this,  O  mother,  that  thou  show'st  ? 
Is  it  a  matter  which  a  god  might  try?  " 

And  straight  the  mother  of  the  gods  replied,  — 
"  There  is  a  way  which  leads  to  Hela's  realm, 
Untrodden,  lonely,  far  from  light  and  heaven. 
Who  goes  that  way  must  take  no  other  horse 
To  ride,  but  Sleipner,  Odin's  horse,  alone. 
Nor  must  he  choose  that  common  path  of  gods 
Which  every  day  they  come  and  go  in  heaven, 
O'er  the  bridge  Bi  frost,  where  is  HeimdalFs  watch, 
Past  Midgard  fortress,  down  to  earth  and  men. 
But  he  must  tread  a  dark  untravelled  road 
Which  branches  from  the  north  of  heaven,  and  ride 


BALDER   DEAD.  IOI 

Nine  days,  nine  nights,  toward  the  northern  ice, 

Through  valleys  deep-ingulfed  with  roaring  streams. 

And  he  will  reach  on  the  tenth  morn  a  bridge 

Which  spans  with  golden  arches  GialPs  stream, 

Not  Bifrost,  but  that  bridge  a  damsel  keeps, 

Who  tells  the  passing  troops  of  dead  their  way 

To  the  low  shore  of  ghosts,  and  Hela's  realm. 

And  she  will  bid  him  northward  steer  his  course. 

Then  he  will  journey  through  no  lighted  land, 

Nor  see  the  sun  arise,  nor  see  it  set ; 

But  he  must  ever  watch  the  northern  Bear, 

Who  from  her  frozen  height  with  jealous  eye 

Confronts  the  Dog  and  Hunter  in  the  south, 

And  is  alone  not  dipt  in  ocean's  stream ; 

And  straight  he  will  come  down  to  ocean's  strand,  — 

Ocean,  whose  watery  ring  infolds  the  world, 

And  on  whose  marge  the  ancient  giants  dwell. 

But  he  will  reach  its  unknown  northern  shore, 

Far,  far  beyond  the  outmost  giant's  home, 

At  the  chinked  fields  of  ice,  the  wastes  of  snow. 

And  he  must  fare  across  the  dismal  ice 

Northward,  until  he  meets  a  stretching  wall 

Barring  his  way,  and  in  the  wall  a  grate. 

But  then  he  must  dismount,  and  on  the  ice 

Tighten  the  girths  of  Sleipner,  Odin's  horse, 

And  make  him  leap  the  grate,  and  come  within. 

And  he  will  see  stretch  round  him  Hela's  realm, 

The  plains  of  Niflheim,  where  dwell  the  dead, 

And  hear  the  roaring  of  the  streams  of  hell. 

And  he  will  see  the  feeble,  shadowy  tribes, 

And  Balder  sitting  crowned,  and  Hela's  throne. 

Then  must  he  not  regard  the  wailful  ghosts 

Who  all  will  flit,  like  eddying  leaves,  around  ; 

But  he  must  straight  accost  their  solemn  queen, 


102  BALDER   DEAD. 

And  pay  her  homage,  and  entreat  with  prayers, 
Telling  her  all  that  grief  they  have  in  heaven 
For  Balder,  whom  she  holds  by  right  below ; 
If  haply  he  may  melt  her  heart  with  words, 
And  make  her  yield,  and  give  him  Balder  back." 

She  spoke  ;  but  Hoder  answered  her  and  said,  — 
"  Mother,  a  dreadful  way  is  this  thou  show'st ; 
No  journey  for  a  sightless  god  to  go  !  " 

And  straight  the  mother  of  the  gods  replied,  — 
"  Therefore  thyself  thou  shalt  not  go,  my  son. 
But  he  whom  first  thou  meetest  when  thou  com'st 
To  Asgard,  and  declar'st  this  hidden  way, 
Shall  go ;  and  I  will  be  his  guide  unseen." 
She  spoke,  and  on  her  face  let  fall  her  veil, 
And  bowed  her  head,  and  sate  with  folded  hands. 
But  at  the  central  hearth  those  women  old, 
Who  while  the  mother  spake  had  ceased  their  toil, 
Began  again  to  heap  the  sacred  fire. 
And  Hoder  turned,  and  left  his  mother's  house, 
Fensaler,  whose  lit  windows  look  to  sea ; 
And  came  again  down  to  the  roaring  waves, 
And  back  along  the  beach  to  Asgard  went, 
Pondering  on  that  which  Frea  said  should  be. 

But  night  came  down,  and  darkened  Asgard  streets. 
Then  from  their  loathed  feast  the  gods  arose, 
And  lighted  torches,  and  took  up  the  corpse 
Of  Balder  from  the  floor  of  Odin's  hall, 
And  laid  it  on  a  bier,  and  bare  him  home 
Through  the  fast-darkening  streets  to  his  own  house 
Breidablik,  on  whose  columns  Balder  graved 
The  enchantments  that  recall  the  dead  to  life. 
For  wise  he  was,  and  many  curious  arts, 
Postures  of  runes,  and  healing  herbs  he  knew ; 
Unhappy  !  but  that  art  he  did  not  know, 


BALDER   DEAD. 


IO3 


To  keep  his  own  life  safe,  and  see  the  sun. 
There  to  his  hall  the  gods  brought  Balder  home, 
And  each  bespake  him  as  he  laid  him  down,  — 

"  Would  that  ourselves,  O  Balder,  we  were  borne 
Home  to  our  halls,  with  torchlight,  by  our  kin, 
So  thou  might'st  live,  and  still  delight  the  gods  !  " 

They  spake,  and  each  went  home  to  his  own  house. 
But  there  was  one,  the  first  of  all  the  gods 
For  speed,  and  Hermod  was  his  name  in  heaven ; 
Most  fleet  he  was,  but  now  he  went  the  last, 
Heavy  in  heart  for  Balder,  to  his  house 
Which  he  in  Asgard  built  him,  there  to  dwell, 
Against  the  harbor,  by  the  city-wall. 
Him  the  blind  Hoder  met,  as  he  came  up 
From  the  sea  cityward,  and  knew  his  step ; 
Nor  yet  could  Hermod  see  his  brother's  face, 
For  it  grew  dark  ;  but  Hoder  touched  his  arm. 
And  as  a  spray  of  honeysuckle-flowers 
Brushes  across  a  tired  traveller's  face 
Who  shuffles  through  the  deep  dew-moistened  dust, 
On  a  May  evening,  in  the  darkened  lanes, 
And  starts  him,  that  he  thinks  a  ghost  went  by,  — 
So  Hoder  brushed  by  Hermod's  side,  and  said,  — 

"  Take  Sleipner,  Hermod,  and  set  forth  with  dawn 
To  Hela's  kingdom,  to  ask  Balder  back ; 
And  they  shall  be  thy  guides,  who  have  the  power." 

He  spake,  and  brushed  soft  by,  and  disappeared. 
And  Hermod  gazed  into  the  night,  and  said,  — 

"  Who  is  it  utters  through  the  dark  his  hest 
So  quickly,  and  will  wait  for  no  reply  ? 
The  voice  was  like  the  unhappy  Hoder's  voice. 
Howbeit  I  will  see,  and  do  his  hest ; 
For  there  rang  note  divine  in  that  command." 

So  speaking,  the  fleet-footed  Hermod  came 


104  BALDER    DEAD. 

Home,  and  lay  down  to  sleep  in  his  own  house  ; 
And  all  the  gods  lay  down  in  their  own  homes. 
And  Hoder  too  came  home,  distraught  with  grief, 
Loathing  to  meet,  at  dawn,  the  other  gods ; 
And  he  went  in,  and  shut  the  door,  and  fixed 
His  sword  upright,  and  fell  on  it,  and  died. 

But  from  the  hill  of  Lidskialf  Odin  rose,  — 
The  throne  from  which  his  eye  surveys  the  world,  — 
And  mounted  Sleipner,  and  in  darkness  rode 
To  Asgard.     And  the  stars  came  out  in  heaven, 
High  over  Asgard,  to  light  home  the  king. 
But  fiercely  Odin  galloped,  moved  in  heart ; 
And  swift  to  Asgard,  to  the  gate,  he  came ; 
And  terribly  the  hoofs  of  Sleipner  rang 
Along  the  flinty  floor  of  Asgard  streets  ; 
And  the  gods  trembled  on  their  golden  beds 
Hearing  the  wrathful  Father  coming  home,  — 
For  dread,  for  like  a  whirlwind,  Odin  came. 
And  to  Valhalla's  gate  he  rode,  and  left 
Sleipner  ;  and  Sleipner  went  to  his  own  stall ; 
And  in  Valhalla  Odin  laid  him  down. 

But  in  Breidablik  Nanna,  Balder's  wife, 
Came  with  the  goddesses  who  wrought  her  will, 
And  stood  by  Balder  lying  on  his  bier. 
And  at  his  head  and  feet  she  stationed  scalds 
Who  in  their  lives  were  famous  for  their  song ; 
These  o'er  the  corpse  intoned  a  plaintive  strain, 
A  dirge,  —  and  Nanna  and  her  train  replied. 
And  far  into  the  night  they  wailed  their  dirge  ; 
But  when  their  souls  were  satisfied  with  wail, 
They  went,  and  laid  them  down,  and  Nanna  went 
Into  an  upper  chamber,  and  lay  down  ; 
And  Frea  sealed  her  tired  lids  with  sleep. 

And  'twas  when  night  is  bordering  hard  on  dawn, 


BALDER   DEAD.  105 

When  air  is  chilliest,  and  the  stars  sunk  low ; 

Then  Balder's  spirit  through  the  gloom  drew  near, 

In  garb,  in  form,  in  feature,  as  he  was, 

Alive ;  and  still  the  rays  were  round  his  head 

Which  were  his  glorious  mark  in  heaven ;  he  stood 

Over  against  the  curtain  of  the  bed, 

And  gazed  on  Nanna  as  she  slept,  and  spake,  — 

"  Poor  lamb,  thou  sleepest,  and  forgett'st  thy  woe  ! 
Tears  stand  upon  the  lashes  of  thine  eyes, 
Tears  wet  the  pillow  by  thy  cheek ;  but  thou, 
Like  a  young  child,  hast  cried  thyself  to  sleep. 
Sleep  on  ;  I  watch  thee,  and  am  here  to  aid. 
Alive  I  kept  not  far  from  thee,  dear  soul  ! 
Neither  do  I  neglect  thee  now,  though  dead. 
For  with  to-morrow's  dawn  the  gods  prepare 
To  gather  wood,  and  build  a  funeral-pile 
Upon  my  ship,  and  burn  my  corpse  with  fire, 
That  sad,  sole  honor  of  the  dead ;  and  thee 
They  think  to  burn,  and  all  my  choicest  wealth, 
With  me,  for  thus  ordains  the  common  rite. 
But  it  shall  not  be  so ;  but  mild,  but  swift, 
But  painless,  shall  a  stroke  from  Frea  come, 
To  cut  thy  thread  of  life,  and  free  thy  soul, 
And  they  shall  burn  thy  corpse  with  mine,  not  thee. 
And  well  I  know  that  by  no  stroke  of  death, 
Tardy  or  swift,  wouldst  thou  be  loath  to  die, 
So  it  restored  thee,  Nanna,  to  my  side, 
Whom  thou  so  well  hast  loved ;  but  I  can  smooth 
Thy  way,  and  this,  at  least,  my  prayers  avail. 
Yes,  and  I  fain  would  altogether  ward 
Death  from  thy  head,  and  with  the  gods  in  heaven 
Prolong  thy  life,  though  not  by  thee  desired ; 
But  right  bars  this,  not  only  thy  desire. 
Yet  dreary,  Nanna,  is  the  life  they  lead 


106  BALDER   DEAD. 

In  that  dim  world,  in  Hela's  mouldering  realm  : 
And  doleful  are  the  ghosts,  the  troops  of  dead, 
Whom  Hela  with  austere  control  presides. 
For  of  the  race  of  gods  is  no  one  there, 
Save  me  alone,  and  Hela,  solemn  queen. 
For  all  the  nobler  souls  of  mortal  men 
On  battle-field  have  met  their  death,  and  now 
Feast  in  Valhalla,  in  my  father's  hall : 
Only  the  inglorious  sort  are  there  below  ; 
The  old,  the  cowards,  and  the  weak  are  there,  — 
Men  spent  by  sickness,  or  obscure  decay. 
But  even  there,  O  Nanna,  we  might  find 
Some  solace  in  each  other's  look  and  speech, 
Wandering  together  through  that  gloomy  world, 
And  talking  of  the  life  we  led  in  heaven, 
While  we  yet  lived,  among  the  other  gods." 

He  spake,  and  straight  his  lineaments  began 
To  fade  ;  and  Nanna  in  her  sleep  stretched  out 
Her  arms  towards  him  with  a  cry ;  but  he 
Mournfully  shook  his  head,  and  disappeared. 
And  as  the  woodman  sees  a  little  smoke 
Hang  in  the  air  afield,  and  disappear, 
So  Balder  faded  in  the  night  away. 
And  Nanna  on  her  bed  sank  back ;  but  then 
Frea,  the  mother  of  the  gods,  with  stroke 
Painless  and  swift,  set  free  her  airy  soul, 
Which  took,  on  Balder's  track,  the  way  below ; 
And  instantly  the  sacred  morn  appeared. 


II.    JOURNEY  TO   THE   DEAD. 

Forth  from  the  east,  up  the  ascent  of  heaven. 
Day  drove  his  courser  with  the  shining  mane  ; 


BALDER  DEAD.  107 

And  in  Valhalla,  from  his  gable-perch, 

The  golden-crested  cock  began  to  crow. 

Hereafter,  in  the  blackest  dead  of  night, 

With  shrill  and  dismal  cries  that  bird  shall  crow, 

Warning  the  gods  that  foes  draw  nigh  to  heaven ; 

But  now  he  crew  at  dawn,  a  cheerful  note, 

To  wake  the  gods  and  heroes  to  their  tasks. 

And  all  the  gods  and  all  the  heroes  woke. 

And  from  their  beds  the  heroes  rose,  and  donned 

Their  arms,  and  led  their  horses  from  the  stall, 

And  mounted  them,  and  in  Valhalla's  court 

Were  ranged ;  and  then  the  daily  fray  began. 

And  all  day  long  they  there  are  hacked  and  hewn 

'Mid    dust,  and   groans,  and   limbs  lopped  off,  and 

blood ; 
But  all  at  night  return  to  Odin's  hall 
Woundless  and  fresh  :  such  lot  is  theirs  in  heaven. 
And  the  Valkyries  on  their  steeds  went  forth 
Toward  earth  and  fights  of  men  ;  and  at  their  side 
Skulda,  the  youngest  of  the  Nornies,  rode  ; 
And  over  Bifrost,  where  is  Heimdall's  watch, 
Past  Midgard  fortress,  down  to  earth  they  came ; 
There  through  some  battle-field,  where  men  fall  fast, 
Their  horses  fetlock-deep  in  blood,  they  ride, 
And  pick  the  bravest  warriors  out  for  death, 
Whom  they  bring  back  with  them  at  night  to  heaven, 
To  glad  the  gods,  and  feast  in  Odin's  hall. 

But  the  gods  went  not  now,  as  otherwhile, 
Into  the  tilt-yard,  where  the  heroes  fought, 
To  feast  their  eyes  with  looking  on  the  fray ; 
Nor  did  they  to  their  judgment-place  repair 
By  the  ash  Igdrasil,  in  Ida's  plain, 
Where  they  hold  council,  and  give  laws  for  men. 
But  they  went,  Odin  first,  the  rest  behind, 


IOS  BALDER   DEAD. 

To  the  hall  Gladheim,  which  is  built  of  gold ; 
Where  are  in  circle  ranged  twelve  golden  chairs, 
And  in  the  midst  one  higher,  Odin's  throne. 
There  all  the  gods  in  silence  sate  them  down ; 
And  thus  the  Father  of  the  ages  spake  :  — 

"  Go  quickly,  gods,  bring  wood  to  the  seashore, 
With  all  which  it  beseems  the  dead  to  have, 
And  make  a  funeral-pile  on  Balder's  ship ; 
On  the  twelfth  day  the  gods  shall  burn  his  corpse. 
But,  Hermod,  thou  take  Sleipner,  and  ride  down 
To  Hela's  kingdom,  to  ask  Balder  back." 

So  said  he  ;  and  the  gods  arose,  and  took 
Axes  and  ropes,  and  at  their  head  came  Thor, 
Shouldering  his  hammer,  which  the  giants  know. 
Forth  wended  they,  and  drave  their  steeds  before. 
And  up  the  dewy  mountain  tracks  they  fared 
To  the  dark  forests,  in  the  early  dawn  ; 
And  up  and  down,  and  side  and  slant  they  roamed. 
And  from  the  glens  all  day  an  echo  came 
Of  crashing  falls  ;  for  with  his  hammer  Thor 
Smote  'mid  the  rocks  the  lichen-bearded  pines, 
And  burst  their  roots,  while  to  their  tops  the  gods 
Made  fast  the  woven  ropes,  and  haled  them  down, 
And  lopped  their  boughs,  and  clove  them  on  the  sward, 
And  bound  the  logs  behind  their  steeds  to  draw, 
And  drave  them  homeward ;  and  the  snorting  steeds 
Went  straining  through  the  crackling  brushwood  down, 
And  by  the  darkling  forest-paths  the  gods 
Followed,  and  on  their  shoulders  carried  boughs. 
And  they  came  out  upon  the  plain,  and  passed 
Asgard,  and  led  their  horses  to  the  beach, 
And  loosed  them  of  their  loads  on  the  seashore, 
And  ranged  the  wood  in  stacks  by  Balder's  ship ; 
And  every  god  went  home  to  his  own  house. 


BALDER   DEAD.  IO9 

But  when  the  gods  were  to  the  forest  gone, 
Hermod  led  Sleipner  from  Valhalla  forth, 
And  saddled  him  :  before  that,  Sleipner  brooked 
No  meaner  hand  than  Odin's  on  his  mane, 
On  his  broad  back  no  lesser  rider  bore ; 
Yet  docile  now  he  stood  at  Hermod's  side, 
Arching  his  neck,  and  glad  to  be  bestrode, 
Knowing  the  god  they  went  to  seek,  how  dear. 
But  Hermod  mounted  him,  and  sadly  fared 
In  silence  up  the  dark  untravelled  road 
Which  branches  from  the  north  of  heaven,  and  went 
All  day  ;  and  daylight  waned,  and  night  came  on. 
And  all  that  night  he  rode,  and  journeyed  so, 
Nine  days,  nine  nights,  toward  the  northern  ice, 
Through  valleys  deep-ingulfed,  by  roaring  streams. 
And  on  the  tenth  morn  he  beheld  the  bridge 
Which  spans  with  golden  arches  GialPs  stream, 
And  on  the  bridge  a  damsel  watching  armed, 
In  the  strait  passage,  at  the  farther  end, 
Where  the  road  issues  between  walling  rocks. 
Scant  space  that  warder  left  for  passers-by ; 
But  as  when  cowherds  in  October  drive 
Their  kine  across  a  snowy  mountain  pass 
To  winter  pasture  on  the  southern  side, 
And  on  the  ridge  a  wagon  chokes  the  way, 
Wedged  in  the  snow ;  then  painfully  the  hinds 
With  goad  and  shouting  urge  their  cattle  past, 
Plunging  through  deep  untrodden  banks  of  snow 
To  right  and  left,  and  warm  steam  fills  the  air,  — 
So  on  the  bridge  that  damsel  blocked  the  way, 
And  questioned  Hermod  as  he  came,  and  said,  — 

"  Who  art  thou  on  thy  black  and  fiery  horse, 
Under  whose  hoofs  the  bridge  o'er  Giall's  stream 
Rumbles  and  shakes?     Tell  me  thy  race  and  home. 


I  10  BALDER   DEAD. 

But  yester-morn,  five  troops  of  dead  passed  by, 
Bound  on  their  way  below  to  Hela's  realm, 
Nor  shook  the  bridge  so  much  as  thou  alone. 
And  thou  hast  flesh  and  color  on  thy  cheeks, 
Like  men  who  live,  and  draw  the  vital  air ; 
Nor  look'st  thou  pale  and  wan,  like  men  deceased, 
Souls  bound  below,  my  daily  passers  here." 

And  the  fleet-footed  Hermod  answered  her,  — 
"  O  damsel,  Hermod  am  I  called,  the  son 
Of  Odin  ;  and  my  high-roofed  house  is  built 
Far  hence,  in  Asgard,  in  the  city  of  gods  ; 
And  Sleipner,  Odin's  horse,  is  this'  I  ride. 
And  I  come,  sent  this  road  on  Balder's  track  : 
Say,  then,  if  he  hath  crossed  thy  bridge  or  no?" 

He  spake  ;  the  warder  of  the  bridge  replied,  — 
"O  Hermod,  rarely  do  the  feet  of  gods 
Or  of  the  horses  of  the  gods  resound 
Upon  my  bridge ;  and,  when  they  cross,  I  know. 
Balder  hath  gone  this  way,  and  ta'en  the  road 
Below  there,  to  the  north,  toward  Hela's  realm. 
From  here  the  cold  white  mist  can  be  discerned, 
Not  lit  with  sun,  but  through  the  darksome  air 
By  the  dim  vapor-blotted  light  of  stars, 
Which  hangs  over  the  ice  where  lies  the  road. 
For  in  that  ice  are  lost  those  northern  streams, 
Freezing  and  ridging  in  their  onward  flow, 
Which  from  the  fountain  of  Vergelmer  run, 
The  spring  that  bubbles  up  by  Hela's  throne. 
There  are  the  joyless  seats,  the  haunt  of  ghosts, 
Hela's  pale  swarms  ;  and  there  was  Balder  bound. 
Ride  on  !  pass  free  !  but  he  by  this  is  there." 

She  spake,  and  stepped  aside,  and  left  him  room. 
And  Hermod  greeted  her,  and  galloped  by 
Across  the  bridge  ;  then  she  took  post  again. 


BALDER   DEAD.  I  I  I 

But  northward  Hermod  rode,  the  way  below ; 

And  o'er  a  darksome  tract,  which  knows  no  sun, 

But  by  the  blotted  light  of  stars,  he  fared. 

And  he  came  down  to  ocean's  northern  strand, 

At  the  drear  ice,  beyond  the  giants'  home. 

Thence  on  he  journeyed  o'er  the  fields  of  ice 

Still  north,  until  he  met  a  stretching  wall 

Barring  his  way,  and  in  the  wall  a  grate. 

Then  he  dismounted,  and  drew  tight  the  girths, 

On  the  smooth  ice,  of  Sleipner,  Odin's  horse, 

And  made  him  leap  the  grate,  and  came  within. 

And  he  beheld  spread  round  him  Hela's  realm, 

The  plains  of  Niflheim,  where  dwell  the  dead, 

And  heard  the  thunder  of  the  streams  of  hell. 

For  near  the  wall  the  river  of  Roaring  flows, 

Outmost ;  the  others  near  the  centre  run,  — 

The  Storm,  the  Abyss,  the  Howling,  and  the  Pain  ; 

These  flow  by  Hela's  throne,  and  near  their  spring. 

And  from  the  dark  flocked  up  the  shadowy  tribes ; 

And  as  the  swallows  crowd  the  bulrush-beds 

Of  some  clear  river,  issuing  from  a  lake, 

On  autumn-days,  before  they  cross  the  sea  ; 

And  to  each  bulrush-crest  a  swallow  hangs 

Swinging,  and  others  skim  the  river-streams, 

And  their  quick  twittering  fills  the  banks  and  shores,  — 

So  around  Hermod  swarmed  the  twittering  ghosts. 

Women,  and  infants,  and  young  men  who  died 

Too  soon  for  fame,  with  white  ungraven  shields ; 

And  old  men,  known  to  glory,  but  their  star 

Betrayed  them,  and  of  wasting  age  they  died, 

Not  wounds  ;  yet,  dying,  they  their  armor  wore, 

And  now  have  chief  regard  in  Hela's  realm. 

Behind  flocked  wrangling  up  a  piteous  crew, 

Greeted  of  none,  disfeatured  and  forlorn,  — ■ 


U2  BALDER  DEAD. 

Cowards,  who  were  in  sloughs  interred  alive ; 
And  round  them  still  the  wattled  hurdles  hung 
Wherewith  they  stamped  them  down,  and  trod  them 

deep, 
To  hide  their  shameful  memory  from  men. 
But  all  he  passed  unhailed,  and  reached  the  throne 
Of  Hela,  and  saw,  near  it,  Balder  crowned, 
And  Hela  set  thereon,  with  countenance  stern ; 
And  thus  bespake  him  first  the  solemn  queen  :  — 

"  Unhappy,  how  hast  thou  endured  to  leave 
The  light,  and  journey  to  the  cheerless  land 
Where  idly  flit  about  the  feeble  shades? 
How  didst  thou  cross  the  bridge  o'er  Giall's  stream, 
Being  alive,  and  come  to  ocean's  shore  ? 
Or  how  o'erleap  the  grate  that  bars  the  wall?" 

She  spake  ;  but  down  off  Sleipner  Hermod  sprang, 
And  fell  before  her  feet,  and  clasped  her  knees  j 
And  spake,  and  mild  entreated  her,  and  said,  — 

"  O  Hela,  wherefore  should  the  gods  declare 
Their  errands  to  each  other,  or  the  ways 
They  go?  the  errand  and  the  way  is  known. 
Thou  know'st,  thou  know'st,  what  grief  we  have  in 

heaven 
For  Balder,  whom  thou  hold'st  by  right  below. 
Restore  him  !  for  what  part  fulfils  he  here  ? 
Shall  he  shed  cheer  over  the  cheerless  seats, 
And  touch  the  apathetic  ghosts  with  joy? 
Not  for  such  end,  O  queen,  thou  hold'st  thy  realm. 
For  heaven  was  Balder  born,  the  city  of  gods 
And  heroes,  where  they  live  in  light  and  joy. 
Thither  restore  him,  for  his  place  is  there  !  " 

He  spoke  ;  and  grave  replied  the  solemn  queen,  — 
"  Hermod,  for  he  thou  art,  thou  son  of  heaven  ! 
A.  strange  unlikely  errand,  'sure,  is  thine. 


BALDER   DEAD.  113 

Do  the  gods  send  to  me  to  make  them  blest? 

Small  bliss  my  race  hath  of  the  gods  obtained. 

Three  mighty  children  to  my  father  Lok 

Did  Angerbode,  the  giantess,  bring  forth,  — 

Fenris  the  wolf,  the  serpent  huge,  and  me. 

Of  these  the  serpent  in  the  sea  ye  cast, 

Who  since  in  your  despite  hath  waxed  amain, 

And  now  with  gleaming  ring  infolds  the  world ; 

Me  on  this  cheerless  nether  world  ye  threw, 

And  gave  me  nine  unlighted  realms  to  rule ; 

While  on  his  island  in  the  lake  afar, 

Made  fast  to  the  bored  crag,  by  wile  not  strength 

Subdued,  with  limber  chains  lives  Fenris  bound. 

Lok  still  subsists  in  heaven,  our  father  wise, 

Your  mate,  though  loathed,  and  feasts  in  Odin's  hall ; 

But  him  too  foes  await,  and  netted  snares, 

And  in  a  cave  a  bed  of  needle-rocks, 

And  o'er  his  visage  serpents  dropping  gall. 

Yet  he  shall  one  day  rise,  and  burst  his  bonds, 

And  with  himself  set  us  his  offspring  fiee, 

When  he  guides  MuspeFs  children  to  their  bourne. 

Till  then  in  peril  or  in  pain  we  live, 

Wrought  by  the  gods  —  and  ask  the  gods  our  aid  ? 

Howbeit,  we  abide  our  day :  till  then, 

We  do  not  as  some  feebler  haters  do,  — 

Seek  to  afflict  our  foes  with  petty  pangs, 

Helpless  to  better  us,  or  ruin  them. 

Come,  then  !  if  Balder  was  so  dear  beloved, 

And  this  is  true,  and  such  a  loss  is  heaven's,  — 

Hear  how  to  heaven  may  Balder  be  restored. 

Show  me  through  all  the  world  the  signs  of  grief ! 

Fails  but  one  thing  to  grieve,  here  Balder  stops  ! 

Let  all  that  lives  and  moves  upon  the  earth 

Weep  him,  and  all  that  is  without  life  weep; 


114  BALDER   DEAD. 

Let  gods,  men,  brutes,  beweep  him  ;  plants  and  stones. 

So  shall  I  know  the  lost  was  dear  indeed, 

And  bend  my  heart,  and  give  him  back  to  heaven." 

She  spake  ;  and  Hermod  answered  her,  and  said,  — 
"  Hela,  such  as  thou  say'st,  the  terms  shall  be. 
But  come,  declare  me  this,  and  truly  tell : 
May  I,  ere  I  depart,  bid  Balder  hail, 
Or  is  it  here  withheld  to  greet  the  dead?  " 

He  spake  ;  and  straightway  Hela  answered  him,  — 
"  Hermod,  greet  Balder  if  thou  wilt,  and  hold 
Converse  ;  his  speech  remains,  though  he  be  dead." 

And  straight  to  Balder  Hermod  turned,  and  spake  : 
"  Even  in  the  abode  of  death,  O  Balder,  hail  ! 
Thou  hear'st,  if  hearing,  like  as  speech,  is  thine, 
The  terms  of  thy  releasement  hence  to  heaven  ; 
Fear  nothing  but  that  all  shall  be  fulfilled. 
For  not  unmindful  of  thee  are  the  gods, 
Who  see  the  light,  and  blest  in  Asgard  dwell ; 
Even  here  they  seek  thee  out,  in  Hela's  realm. 
And,  sure,  of  all  the  happiest  far  art  thou 
Who  ever  have  been  known  in  earth  or  heaven : 
Alive,  thou  wast  of  gods  the  most  beloved  ; 
And  now  thou  sittest  crowned  by  Hela's  side, 
Here,  and  hast  honor  among  all  the  dead." 

He  spake  ;  and  Balder  uttered  him  reply, 
But  feebly,  as  a  voice  far  off;  he  said,  — 

"  Hermod  the  nimble,  gild  me  not  my  death  ! 
Better  to  live  a  serf,  a  captured  man, 
Who  scatters  rushes  in  a  master's  hall, 
Than  be  a  crowned  king  here,  and  rule  the  dead. 
And  now  I  count  not  of  these  terms  as  safe 
To  be  fulfilled,  nor  my  return  as  sure, 
Though  I  be  loved,  and  many  mourn  my  death  ; 
For  double-minded  ever  was  the  seed 


BALDER   DEAD.  I  I  5 

Of  Lok,  and  double  are  the  gifts  they  give. 
Howbeit,  report  thy  message  ;  and  therewith, 
To  Odin,  to  my  father,  take  this  ring, 
Memorial  of  me,  whether  saved  or  no  ; 
And  tell  the  heaven-born  gods  how  thou  hast  seen 
Me  sitting  here  below  by  Hela's  side, 
Crowned,  having  honor  among  all  the  dead." 

He  spake,  and  raised  his  hand,  and  gave  the  ring. 
And  with  inscrutable  regard  the  queen 
Of  hell  beheld  them,  and  the  ghosts  stood  dumb. 
But  Hermod  took  the  ring,  and  yet  once  more 
Kneeled  and  did  homage  to  the  solemn  queen ; 
Then  mounted  Sleipner,  and  set  forth  to  ride 
Back,  through  the  astonished  tribes  of  dead,  to  heaven. 
And  to  the  wall  he  came,  and  found  the  grate 
Lifted,  and  issued  on  the  fields  of  ice. 
And  o'er  the  ice  he  fared  to  ocean's  strand, 
And  up  from  thence,  a  wet  and  misty  road, 
To  the  armed  damsel's  bridge,  and  GialPs  stream. 
Worse  was  that  way  to  go  than  to  return, 
For  him  :  for  others,  all  return  is  barred. 
Nine  days  he  took  to  go,  two  to  return, 
And  on  the  twelfth  morn  saw  the  light  of  heaven. 
And  as  a  traveller  in  the  early  dawn 
To  the  steep  edge  of  some  great  valley  comes, 
Through  which  a  river  flows,  and  sees,  beneath, 
Clouds  of  white  rolling  vapors  fill  the  vale, 
But  o'er  them,  on  the  farther  slope,  descries 
Vineyards,  and  crofts,  and  pastures,  bright  with  sun,  — 
So  Hermod,  o'er  the  fog  between,  saw  heaven. 
And  Sleipner  snorted,  for  he  smelt  the  air 
Of  heaven  ;  and  mightily,  as  winged,  he  flew. 
And  Hermod  saw  the  towers  of  Asgard  rise ; 
And  he  drew  near,  and  heard  no  living  voice 


I  1 6  P ALDER   DEAD. 

In  Asgard;  and  the  golden  halls  were  dumb. 
Then  Hermod  knew  what  labor  held  the  gods  ; 
And  through  the  empty  streets  he  rode,  and  passed 
Under  the  gate-house  to  the  sands,  and  found 
The  gods  on  the  seashore  by  Haider's  ship. 


III.     FUNERAL. 

The  gods  held  talk  together,  grouped  in  knots, 
Round  Balder's  corpse,  which  they  had  thither  borne ; 
And  Hermod  came  down  towards  them  from  the  gate. 
And  Lok,  the  father  of  the  serpent,  first 
Beheld  him  come,  and  to  his  neighbor  spake,  — 

"  See,  here  is  Hermod,  who  comes  single  back 
From  hell ;  and  shall  I  tell  thee  how  he  seems  ? 
Like  as  a  farmer,  who  hath  lost  his  dog, 
Some  morn,  at  market,  in  a  crowded  town,  — 
Through  many  streets  the  poor  beast  runs  in  vain, 
And  follows  this  man  after  that,  for  hours  ; 
And  late  at  evening,  spent  and  panting,  falls 
Before  a  stranger's  threshold,  not  his  home, 
With  flanks  a-tremble,  and  his  slender  tongue 
Hangs  quivering  out  between  his  dust-smeared  jaws, 
And  piteously  he  eyes  the  passers-by ; 
But  home  his  master  comes  to  his  own  farm, 
Far  in  the  country,  wondering  where  he  is,  — 
So  Hermod  comes  to-day  unfollowed  home." 

And  straight  his  neighbor,  moved  with  wrath,  re- 
plied, — 
"  Deceiver  !  fair  in  form,  but  false  in  heart  ! 
Enemy,  mocker,  whom,  though  gods,  we  hate,  — 
Peace,  lest  our  father  Odin  hear  thee  gibe  ! 
Would  I  might  see  him  snatch  thee  in  his  hand, 


BALDER   DEAD.  WJ 

And  bind  thy  carcass,  like  a  bale,  with  cords, 
And  hurl  thee  in  a  lake,  to  sink  or  swim  ! 
If  clear  from  plotting  Balder 's  death,  to  swim ; 
But  deep,  if  thou  devisedst  it,  to  drown, 
And  perish,  against  fate,  before  thy  day." 

So  they  two  soft  to  one  another  spake. 
But  Odin  looked  toward  the  land,  and  saw 
His  messenger ;  and  he  stood  forth,  and  cried. 
And  Hermod  came,  and  leapt  from  Sleipner  down, 
And  in  his  father's  hand  put  Sleipner's  rein, 
And  greeted  Odin  and  the  gods,  and  said,  — 

"  Odin,  my  father,  and  ye,  gods  of  heaven  ! 
Lo,  home,  having  performed  your  will,  I  come. 
Into  the  joyless  kingdom  have  I  been, 
Below,  and  looked  upon  the  shadowy  tribes 
Of  ghosts,  and  communed  with  their  solemn  queen ; 
And  to  your  prayer  she  sends  you  this  reply  :  — 
Show  her  through  all  the  world  the  signs  of  grief ! 
Fails  but  one  thing  to  grieve,  there  Balder  stops  ! 
Let  gods,  men,  brutes,  beweep  him;  plants  and  stones. 
So  shall  she  know  your  loss  was  dear  indeed, 
And  bend  her  heart,  and  give  you  Balder  back." 

He  spoke,  and  all  the  gods  to  Odin  looked  ; 
And  straight  the  Father  of  the  ages  said,  — 

"  Ye  gods,  these  terms  may  keep  another  day. 
But  now  put  on  your  arms,  and  mount  your  steeds, 
And  in  procession  all  come  near,  and  weep 
PJalder  ;  for  that  is  what  the  dead  desire. 
When  ye  enough  have  wept,  then  build  a  pile 
Of  the  heaped  wood,  and  burn  his  corpse  with  fire 
Out  of  our  sight ;  that  we  may  turn  from  grief, 
And  lead,  as  erst,  our  daily  life  in  heaven." 

He  spoke,  and  the  gods  armed  ;  and  Odin  donned 
His  dazzling  corslet  and  his  helm  of  gold, 


Il8  BALDER   DEAD. 

And  led  the  way  on  Sleipner ;  and  the  rest 
Followed,  in  tears,  their  father  and  their  king. 
And  thrice  in  arms  around  the  dead  they  rode, 
Weeping ;  the  sands  were  wetted,  and  their  arms, 
With  their  thick-falling  tears,  —  so  good  a  friend 
They  mourned  that  day,  so  bright,  so  loved  a  god. 
And  Odin  came,  and  laid  his  kingly  hands 
On  Balder's  breast,  and  thus  began  the  wail :  — 

"  Farewell,  O  Balder,  bright  and  loved,  my  son  \ 
In  that  great  day,  the  twilight  of  the  gods, 
When  MuspeFs  children  shall  beleaguer  heaven, 
Then  we  shall  miss  thy  counsel  and  thy  arm." 

Thou  earnest  near  the  next,  O  warrior  Thor  ! 
Shouldering  thy  hammer,  in  thy  chariot  drawn, 
Swaying  the  long-haired  goats  with  silvered  rein  ; 
And  over  Balder's  corpse  these  words  didst  say  :  — 

"  Brother,  thou  dwellest  in  the  darksome  land, 
And  talkest  with  the  feeble  tribes  of  ghosts, 
Now,  and  I  know  not  how  they  prize  thee  there  — 
But  here,  I  know,  thou  wilt  be  missed  and  mourned. 
For  haughty  spirits  and  high  wraths  are  rife 
Among  the  gods  and  heroes  here  in  heaven, 
As  among  those  whose  joy  and  work  is  war ; 
And  daily  strifes  arise,  and  angry  words. 
But  from  thy  lips,  O  Balder,  night  or  day, 
Heard  no  one  ever  an  injurious  word 
To  god  or  hero,  but  thou  keptest  back 
The  others,  laboring  to  compose  their  brawls. 
Be  ye  then  kind,  as  Balder  too  was  kind  ! 
For  we  lose  him,  who  smoothed  all  strife  in  heaven." 

He  spake,  and  all  the  gods  assenting  wailed. 
And  Freya  next  came  nigh,  with  golden  tears ; 
The  loveliest  goddess  she  in  heaven,  by  all 
Most  honored  after  Frea,  Odin's  wife. 


BALDER   DEAD. 


II9 


Her  long  ago  the  wandering  Oder  took 

To  mate,  but  left  her  to  roam  distant  lands ; 

Since  then  she  seeks  him,  and  weeps  tears  of  gold. 

Names  hath  she  many ;  Vanadis  on  earth 

They  call  her,  Freya  is  her  name  in  heaven  ; 

She  in  her  hands  took  Balder's  head,  and  spake,  — 

"  Balder,  my  brother,  thou  art  gone  a  road 
Unknown  and  long,  and  haply  on  that  way 
My  long-lost  wandering  Oder  thou  hast  met, 
For  in  the  paths  of  heaven  he  is  not  found. 
Oh  !  if  it  be  so,  tell  him  what  thou  wast 
To  his  neglected  wife,  and  what  he  is, 
And  wring  his  heart  with  shame,  to  hear  thy  word  ! 
For  he,  my  husband,  left  me  here  to  pine, 
Not  long  a  wife,  when  his  unquiet  heart 
First  drove  him  from  me  into  distant  lands ; 
Since  then  I  vainly  seek  him  through  the  world, 
And  weep  from  shore  to  shore  my  golden  tears, 
But  neither  god  nor  mortal  heeds  my  pain. 
Thou  only,  Balder,  wast  forever  kind, 
To  take  my  hand,  and  wipe  my  tears,  and  say,  — 
Weep  not,  O  Freya,  weep  no  golden  tears  ! 
One  day  the  wandering  Oder  will  return, 
Or  thou  wilt  find  him  in  thy  faithful  search, 
On  some  great  road,  or  resting  in  an  inn, 
Or  at  a  ford,  or  sleeping  by  a  tree. 
So  Balder  said  ;  but  Oder,  well  I  know, 
My  truant  Oder  I  shall  see  no  more 
To  the  world's  end  ;  and  Balder  now  is  gone, 
And  I  am  left  uncomforted  in  heaven." 

She  spake,  and  all  the  goddesses  bewailed. 
Last  from  among  the  heroes  one  came  near, 
No  god,  but  of  the  hero-troop  the  chief,  — 
Regner,  who  swept  the  northern  sea  with  fleets, 


120  BALDER   DEAD. 

And  ruled  o'er  Denmark  and  the  heathy  isles, 

Living  ;  but  Ella  captured  him  and  slew,  — 

A  king,  whose  fame  then  filled  the  vast  of  heaven : 

Now  time  obscures  it,  and  men's  later  deeds. 

He  last  approached  the  corpse,  and  spake  and  said,  — 

"  Balder,  there  yet  are  many  scalds  in  heaven 
Still  left,  and  that  chief  scald,  thy  brother  Brage, 
Whom  we  may  bid  to  sing,  though  thou  art  gone. 
And  all  these  gladly,  while  we  drink,  we  hear, 
After  the  feast  is  done,  in  Odin's  hall ; 
But  they  harp  ever  on  one  string,  and  wake 
Remembrance  in  our  soul  of  wars  alone, 
Such  as  on  earth  we  valiantly  have  waged, 
And  blood,  and  ringing  blows,  and  violent  death. 
But  when  thou  sangest,  Balder,  thou  didst  strike 
Another  note,  and,  like  a  bird  in  spring, 
Thy  voice  of  joyance  minded  us,  and  youth, 
And  wife,  and  children,  and  our  ancient  home. 
Yes,  and  I  too  remembered  then  no  more 
My  dungeon,  where  the  serpents  stung  me  dead, 
Nor  Ella's  victory  on  the  English  'coast ; 
But  I  heard  Thora  laugh  in  Gothland  Isle, 
And  saw  my  shepherdess,  Aslauga,  tend 
Her  flock  along  the  white  Norwegian  beach. 
Tears  started  to  mine  eyes  with  yearning  joy. 
Therefore  with  grateful  heart  I  mourn  thee  dead." 

So  Regner  spake,  and  all  the  heroes  groaned. 
But  now  the  sun  had  passed  the  height  of  heaven, 
And  soon  had  all  that  day  been  spent  in  wail  ; 
But  then  the  Father  of  the  ages  said,  — 

"  Ye  gods,  there  well  may  be  too  much  of  wail  ! 
Bring  now  the  gathered  wood  to  Balder's  ship  ; 
Heap  on  the  deck  the  logs,  and  build  the  pyre." 

But  when  the  gods  and  heroes  heard,  they  brought 


BALDER   DEAD.  121 

The  wood  to  Balder's  ship,  and  built  a  pile, 

Full  the  deck's  breadth,  and  lofty ;  then  the  corpse 

Of  Balder  on  the  highest  top  they  laid, 

With  Nanna  on  his  right,  and  on  his  left 

Hoder,  his  brother,  whom  his  own  hand  slew. 

And  they  set  jars  of  wine  and  oil  to  lean 

Against  the  bodies,  and  stuck  torches  near, 

Splinters  of  pine-wood,  soaked  with  turpentine ; 

And  brought  his  arms  and  gold,  and  all  his  stuff, 

And  slew  the  dogs  who  at  his  table  fed, 

And  his  horse,  Balder's  horse,  whom  most  he  loved, 

And  threw  them  on  the  pyre ;  and  Odin  threw 

A  last  choice  gift  thereon,  his  golden  ring. 

The  mast  they  fixed,  and  hoisted  up  the  sails  ; 

Then  they  put  fire  to  the  wood  ;  and  Thor 

Set  his  stout  shoulder  hard  against  the  stern 

To  push  the  ship  through  the  thick  sand  ;  sparks  flew 

From  the  deep  trench  she  ploughed,  so  strong  a  god 

Furrowed  it ;  and  the  water  gurgled  in. 

And  the  ship  floated  on  the  waves,  and  rocked. 

But  in  the  hills  a  strong  east-wind  arose, 

And  came  down  moaning  to  the  sea ;  first  squalls 

Ran  black  o'er  the  sea's  face,  then  steady  rushed 

The  breeze,  and  filled  the  sails,  and  blew  the  fire. 

And  wreathed  in  smoke  the  ship  stood  out  to  sea. 

Soon  with  a  roaring  rose  the  mighty  fire, 

And  the  pile  crackled ;  and  between  the  logs 

Sharp  quivering  tongues  of  flame  shot  out,  and  leapt, 

Curling  and  darting,  higher,  until  they  licked 

The  summit  of  the  pile,  the  dead,  the  mast, 

And  ate  the  shrivelling  sails ;  but  still  the  ship 

Drove  on,  ablaze  above  her  hull  with  fire. 

And  the  gods  stood  upon  the  beach,  and  gazed. 

And  while  they  gazed,  the  sun  went  lurid  down 


122  BALDER   DEAD. 

Into  the  smoke-wrapt  sea,  and  night  came  on. 

Then  the  wind  fell,  with  night,  and  there  was  calm  ; 

But  through  the  dark  they  watched  the  burning  ship 

Still  carried  o'er  the  distant  waters  on, 

Farther  and  farther,  like  an  eye  of  fire. 

And  long,  in  the  far  dark,  blazed  Balder's  pile ; 

But  fainter,  as  the  stars  rose  high,  it  flared ; 

The  bodies  were  consumed,  ash  choked  the  pile. 

And  as,  in  a  decaying  winter-fire, 

A  charred  log,  falling,  makes  a  shower  of  sparks,  — 

So  with  a  shower  of  sparks  the  pile  fell  in, 

Reddening  the  sea  around  ;  and  all  was  dark. 

But  the  gods  went  by  starlight  up  the  shore 
To  Asgard,  and  sate  clown  in  Odin's  hall 
At  table,  and  the  funeral-feast  began. 
All  night  they  ate  the  boar  Serimner's  flesh, 
And  from  their  horns,  with  silver  rimmed,  drank  mead, 
Silent,  and  waited  for  the  sacred  morn. 

And  morning  over  all  the  world  was  spread. 
Then  from  their  loathed  feast  the  gods  arose, 
And  took  their  horses,  and  set  forth  to  ride 
O'er  the  bridge  Bifrost,  where  is  Heimdall's  watch, 
To  the  ash  Igdrasil,  and  Ida's  plain. 
Thor  came  on  foot,  the  rest  on  horseback  rode. 
And  they  found  Mimir  sitting  by  his  fount 
Of  wisdom,  which  beneath  the  ash-tree  springs ; 
And  saw  the  Nornies  watering  the  roots 
Of  that  world-shadowing  tree  with  honey-dew. 
There  came  the  gods,  and  sate  them  down  on  stones  ; 
And  thus  the  Father  of  the  ages  said  :  — 

"Ye   gods,   the    terms   ye    know,    which    Hermod 
brought. 
Accept  them  or  reject  them  !  both  have  grounds. 
Accept  them,  and  they  bind  us,  unfulfilled, 


BALDER  DEAD.  1 23 

To  leave  forever  Balder  in  the  grave, 

An  unrecovered  prisoner,  shade  with  shades. 

But  how,  ye  say,  should  the  fulfilment  fail  ?  — 

Smooth  sound  the  terms,  and  light  to  be  fulfilled  ; 

For  dear-beloved  was  Balder  while  he  lived 

In  heaven  and  earth,  and  who  would  grudge  him  tears  ? 

But  from  the  traitorous  seed  of  Lok  they  come, 

These  terms,  and  I  suspect  some  hidden  fraud. 

Bethink  ye,  gods,  is  there  no  other  way? 

Speak,  were  not  this  a  way,  the  way  for  gods,  — 

If  I,  if  Odin,  clad  in  radiant  arms, 

Mounted  on  Sleipner,  with  the  warrior  Thor 

Drawn  in  his  car  beside  me,  and  my  sons, 

All  the  strong  brood  of  heaven,  to  swell  my  train, 

Should  make  irruption  into  Hela's  realm, 

And  set  the  fields  of  gloom  ablaze  with  light, 

And  bring  in  triumph  Balder  back  to  heaven?  " 

He  spake,  and  his  fierce  sons  applauded  loud. 
But  Frea,  mother  of  the  gods,  arose, 
Daughter  and  wife  of  Odin  ;  thus  she  said  :  — 

"  Odin,  thou  whirlwind,  what  a  threat  is  this  ! 
Thou  threatenest  what  transcends  thy  might,  even  thine 
For  of  all  powers  the  mightiest  far  art  thou, 
Lord  over  men  on  earth,  and  gods  in  heaven  ; 
Yet  even  from  thee  thyself  hath  been  withheld 
One  thine;,  —  to  undo  what  thou  thyself  hast  ruled. 
For  all  which  hath  been  fixed  was  fixed  by  thee„ 
In  the  beginning,  ere  the  gods  were  born, 
Before  the  heavens  were  builded,  thou  didst  slay 
The  giant  Ymir,  whom  the  abyss  brought  forth,  — • 
Thou  and  thy  brethren  fierce,  the  sons  of  Bor,  — 
And  cast  his  trunk  to  choke  the  abysmal  void. 
But  of  his  flesh  and  members  thou  didst  build 
The  earth  and  ocean,  and  above  them  heaven. 


124  BALDER   DEAD. 

And  from  the  flaming  world,  where  Muspel  reigns, 
Thou  sent'st  and  fetchedst  fire,  and  madest  lights, 
Sun,    moon,    and    stars,    which   thou    hast    hung    in 

heaven, 
Dividing  clear  the  paths  of  night  and  day. 
And  Asgard  thou  didst  build,  and  Midgard  fort ; 
Then  me  thou  mad'st ;  of  us  the  gods  were  born. 
Last,  walking  by  the  sea,  thou  foundest  spars 
Of  wood,  and  framedst  men,  who  till  the  earth, 
Or  on  the  sea,  the  field  of  pirates,  sail. 
And  all  the  race  of  Ymir  thou  didst  drown, 
Save  one,  Bergelmer  :  he  on  shipboard  fled 
Thy  deluge,  and  from  him  the  giants  sprang. 
But  all  that  brood  thou  hast  removed  far  off, 
And  set  by  ocean's  utmost  marge  to  dwell. 
But  Hela  into  Niflheim  thou  threw'st, 
And  gav'st  her  nine  unlighted  worlds  to  rule, 
A  queen,  and  empire  over  all  the  dead. 
That  empire  wilt  thou  now  invade,  light  up 
Her  darkness,  from  her  grasp  a  subject  tear? 
Try  it ;  but  I,  for  one,  will  not  applaud. 
Nor  do  I  merit,  Odin,  thou  shouldst  slight 
Me  and  my  words,  though  thou  be  first  in  heaven ; 
For  I  too  am  a  goddess,  born  of  thee, 
Thine  eldest,  and  of  me  the  gods  are  sprung ; 
And  all  that  is  to  come  I  know,  but  lock 
In  mine  own  breast,  and  have  to  none  revealed. 
Come,  then  !  since  Hela  holds  by  right  her  prey, 
But  offers  terms  for  his  release  to  heaven, 
Accept  the  chance  :  thou  canst  no  more  obtain. 
Send  through  the  world  thy  messengers  ;  entreat 
All  living  and  unliving  things  to  weep 
For  Balder  :  if  thou  haply  thus  may'st  melt 
Hela,  and  win  the  loved  one  back  to  heaven." 


BALDER  DEAD.  1 25 

She  spake,  and  on  her  face  let  fall  her  veil, 
And  bowed  her  head,  and  sate  with  folded  hands. 
Nor  did  the  all-ruling  Odin  slight  her  word; 
Straightway  he  spake,  and  thus  addressed  the  gods  :  — 

• "  Go  quickly  forth  through  all  the  world,  and  pray 
All  living  and  unliving  things  to  weep 
Balder,  if  haply  he  may  thus  be  won." 

When    the   gods    heard,    they   straight   arose,    and 
took 
Their  horses,  and  rode  forth  through  all  the  world. 
North,  south,  east,  west,  they  struck,  and  roamed  the 

world, 
Entreating  all  things  to  weep  Balder's  death ; 
And  all  that  lived,  and  all  without  life,  wept. 
And  as  in  winter,  when  the  frost  breaks  up, 
At  winter's  end,  before  the  spring  begins, 
And  a  warm  west-wind  blows,  and  thaw  sets  in, 
After  an  hour  a  dripping  sound  is  heard 
In  all  the  forests,  and  the  soft-strewn  snow 
Under  the  trees  is  dibbled  thick  with  holes, 
And  from  the  boughs  the  snow-loads  shuffle  down ; 
And,  in  fields  sloping  to  the  south,  dark  plots 
Of  grass  peep  out  amid  surrounding  snow, 
And  widen,  and  the  peasant's  heart  is  glad,  — 
So  through  the  world  was  heard  a  dripping  noise 
Of  all  things  weeping  to  bring  Balder  back ; 
And  there  fell  joy  upon  the  gods  to  hear. 

But  Hermod  rode  with  Niord,  whom  he  took 
To  show  him  spits  and  beaches  of  the  sea 
Far  off,  where  some  unwarned  might  fail  to  weep,  — 
Niord,  the  god  of  storms,  whom  fishers  know ; 
Not  born  in  heaven,  he  was  in  Vanheim  reared, 
With  men,  but  lives  a  hostage  with  the  gods ; 
He  knows  each  frith,  and  every  rocky  creek 


1 26  BALDER    HEAD. 

Fringed   with    dark   pines,   and   sands  where  seafowl 

scream,  — 
They  two  scoured  every  coast,  and  all  things  wept. 
And  they  rode  home  together,  through  the  wood 
Of  Jarnvid,  which  to  east  of  Midgard  lies 
Bordering  the  giants,  where  the  trees  are  iron  ; 
There  in  the  wood  before  a  cave  they  came, 
Where  sate,  in  the  cave's  mouth,  a  skinny  hag, 
Toothless  and  old  ;  she  gibes  the  passers-by. 
Thok  is  she  called,  but  now  Lok  wore  her  shape. 
She  greeted  them  the  first,  and  laughed,  and  said,  — 

"  Ye  gods,  good  lack,  is  it  so  dull  in  heaven, 
That  ye  come  pleasuring  to  Thok's  iron  wood? 
Lovers  of  change  ye  are,  fastidious  sprites. 
Look,  as  in  some  boor's  yard  a  sweet-breathed  cow, 
Whose  manger  is  stuffed  full  of  good  fresh  hay, 
Snuffs  at  it  daintily,  and  stoops  her  head 
To  chew  the  straw,  her  litter,  at  her  feet,  — 
So  ye  grow  squeamish,  gods,  and  sniff  at  heaven  !  " 

She  spake  ;  but  Hermod  answered  her,  and  said, — 
"  Thok,  not  for  gibes  we  come,  we  come  for  tears. 
Balder  is  dead,  and  Hela  holds  her  prey, 
But  will  restore  if  all  things  give  him  tears. 
Begrudge  not  thine  !  to  all  was  Balder  dear." 

Then,  with  a  louder  laugh,  the  hag  replied,  — 
"  Is  Balder  dead?  and  do  ye  come  for  tears? 
Thok  with  dry  eyes  will  weep  o'er  Balder's  pyre. 
Weep  him  all  other  things,  if  weep  they  will : 
I  weep  him  not !  let  Hela  keep  her  prey." 

She  spake,  and  to  the  cavern's  depth  she  fled, 
Mocking ;  and  Hermod  knew  their  toil  was  vain. 
And  as  seafaring  men,  who  long  have  wrought 
In  the  great  deep  for  gain,  at  last  come  home, 
And  towards  evening  see  the  headlands  rise 


BALDER   DEAD.  12J 

Of  their  dear  country,  and  can  plain  descry 
A  fire  of  withered  furze  which  boys  have  lit 
Upon  the  cliffs,  or  smoke  of  burning  weeds 
Out  of  a  tilled  field  inland  :  then  the  wind 
Catches  them,  and  drives  out  again  to  sea ; 
And  they  go  long  days  tossing  up  and  down 
Over  the  gray  sea-ridges,  and  the  glimpse 
Of  port  they  had  makes  bitterer  far  their  toil,  — 
So  the  gods'  cross  was  bitterer  for  their  joy. 

Then,  sad  at  heart,  to  Niord  Hermod  spake,  — 
"  It  is  the  accuser  Lok,  who  flouts  us  all  ! 
Ride  back,  and  tell  in  heaven  this  heavy  news ; 
I  must  again  below,  to  Hela's  realm." 

He  spoke,  and  Niord  set  forth  back  to  heaven. 
But  northward  Hermod  rode,  the  way  below, 
The  way  he  knew ;  and  traversed  Giall's  stream, 
And  down  to  ocean  groped,  and  crossed  the  ice, 
And  came  beneath  the  wall,  and  found  the  grate 
Still  lifted  :  well  was  his  return  foreknown. 
And  once  more  Hermod  saw  around  him  spread 
The  joyless  plains,  and  heard  the  streams  of  hell. 
But  as  he  entered,  on  the  extremest  bound 
Of  Niflheim,  he  saw  one  ghost  come  near, 
Hovering,  and  stopping  oft,  as  if  afraid,  — 
Hoder,  the  unhappy,  whom  his  own  hand  slew. 
And  Hermod  looked,  and  knew  his  brother's  ghost, 
And  called  him  by  his  name,  and  sternly  said,  — 

"  Hoder,  ill-fated,  blind  in  heart  and  eyes  ! 
Why  tarriest  thou  to  plunge  thee  in  the  gulf 
Of  the  deep  inner  gloom,  but  flittest  here, 
In  twilight,  on  the  lonely  verge  of  hell, 
Far  from  the  other  ghosts,  and  Hela's  throne  ? 
Doubtless  thou  fearest  to  meet  Balder's  voice, 
Thy  brother,  whom  through  folly  thou  didst  slay." 


128  BALDER  DEAD. 

He  spoke ;  but  Hoder  answered  him,  and  said,  — 
"  Hermod  the  nimble,  dost  thou  still  pursue 
The  unhappy  with  reproach,  even  in  the  grave  ? 
For  this  I  died,  and  fled  beneath  the  gloom, 
Not  daily  to  endure  abhorring  gods, 
Nor  with  a  hateful  presence  cumber  heaven ; 
And  canst  thou  not,  even  here,  pass  pitying  by  ? 
No  less  than  Balder  have  I  lost  the  light 
Of  heaven,  and  communion  with  my  kin  ; 
I  too  had  once  a  wife,  and  once  a  child, 
And  substance,  and  a  golden  house  in  heaven : 
But  all  I  left  of  my  own  act,  and  fled 
Below ;  and  dost  thou  hate  me  even  here  ? 
Balder  upbraids  me  not,  nor  hates  at  all, 
Though  he  has  cause,  have  any  cause ;  but  he, 
When  that  with  downcast  looks  I  hither  came, 
Stretched  forth  his  hand,  and  with  benignant  voice, 
Welcome,  he  said,  if  there  be  welcome  here, 
Brother  and  fellow-sport  of  Lok  with  me  ! 
And  not  to  offend  thee,  Hermod,  nor  to  force 
My  hated  converse  on  thee,  came  I  up 
From  the  deep  gloom,  where  I  will  now  return ; 
But  earnestly  I  longed  to  hover  near, 
Not  too  far  off,  when  that  thou  earnest  by ; 
To  feel  the  presence  of  a  brother  god, 
And  hear  the  passage  of  a  horse  of  heaven, 
For  the  last  time  —  for  here  thou  com'st  no  more." 

He  spake,  and  turned  to  go  to  the  inner  gloom. 
But  Hermod  stayed  him  with  mild  words,  and  said, 

"  Thou  doest  well  to  chide  me,  Hoder  blind  ! 
Truly  thou  say'st,  the  planning  guilty  mind 
Was  Lok's  :  the  unwitting  hand  alone  was  thine. 
But  gods  are  like  the  sons  of  men  in  this  : 
When  they  have  woe,  they  blame  the  nearest  cause. 


BALDER  DEAD.  1 29 

Howbeit  stay,  and  be  appeased ;  and  tell, 

Sits  Balder  still  in  pomp  by  Hela's  side, 

Or  is  he  mingled  with  the  unnumbered  dead?  " 

And  the  blind  Hoder  answered  him  and  spake,  — 
"  His  place  of  state  remains  by  Hela's  side, 
But  empty  ;  for  his  wife,  for  Nanna,  came 
Lately  below,  and  joined  him  ;  and  the  pair 
Frequent  the  still  recesses  of  the  realm 
Of  Hela,  and  hold  converse  undisturbed. 
But  they  too,  doubtless,  will  have  breathed  the  balm 
Which  floats  before  a  visitant  from  heaven, 
And  have  drawn  upward  to  this  verge  of  hell." 

He  spake  ;  and,  as  he  ceased,  a  puff  of  wind 
Rolled  heavily  the  leaden  mist  aside 
Round  where  they  stood,  and  they  beheld  two  forms 
Make  toward  them  o'er  the  stretching  cloudy  plain. 
And  Hermod  straight  perceived  them,  who  they  were,  — 
Balder  and  Nanna  ;  and  to  Balder  said,  — 

"  Balder,  too  truly  thou  foresaw'st  a  snare  ! 
Lok  triumphs  still,  and  Hela  keeps  her  prey. 
No  more  to  Asgard  shalt  thou  come,  nor  lodge 
In  thy  own  house  Breidablik,  nor  enjoy 
The  love  all  bear  toward  thee,  nor  train  up 
Forset,  thy  son,  to  be  beloved  like  thee. 
Here  must  thou  lie,  and  wait  an  endless  age. 
Therefore  for  the  last  time,  O  Balder,  hail  !  " 

He  spake  ;  and  Balder  answered  him,  and  said,  — 
"  Hail  and  farewell  !  for  here  thou  com'st  no  more. 
Yet  mourn  not  for  me,  Hermod,  when  thou  sitt'st 
In  heaven,  nor  let  the  other  gods  lament, 
As  wholly  to  be  pitied,  quite  forlorn. 
For  Nanna  hath  rejoined  me,  who  of  old, 
In  heaven,  was  seldom  parted  from  my  side  ; 
And  still  the  acceptance  follows  me,  which  crowned 


I30  BALDER  DEAD. 

My  former  life,  and  cheers  me  even  here. 
The  iron  frown  of  Hela  is  relaxed 
When  I  draw  nigh,  and  the  wan  tribes  of  dead 
Love  me,  and  gladly  bring  for  my  award 
Their  ineffectual  feuds  and  feeble  hates,  — 
Shadows  of  hates,  but  they  distress  them  still." 

And  the  fleet-footed  Hermod  made  reply,  — 
"  Thou  hast,  then,  all  the  solace  death  allows,  — 
Esteem  and  function  ;  and  so  far  is  well. 
Yet  here  thou  liest,  Balder,  underground, 
Rusting  forever ;  and  the  years  roll  on, 
The  generations  pass,  the  ages  grow, 
And  bring  us  nearer  to  the  final  day 
When  from  the  south  shall  march  the  fiery  band, 
And  cross  the  bridge  of  heaven,  with  Lok  for  guide, 
And  Fenris  at  his  heel  with  broken  chain  ; 
While  from  the  east  the  giant  Rymer  steers 
His  ship,  and  the  great  serpent  makes  to  land ; 
And  all  are  marshalled  in  one  flaming  square 
Against  the  gods,  upon  the  plains  of  heaven. 
I  mourn  thee,  that  thou  canst  not  help  us  then." 

He  spake  ;  but  Balder  answered  him,  and  said,  — 
"  Mourn  not  for  me  !     Mourn,  Hermod,  for  the  gods  ; 
Mourn  for  the  men  on  earth,  the  gods  in  heaven, 
Who  live,  and  with  their  eyes  shall  see  that  day  ! 
The  day  will  come,  when  fall  shall  Asgard's  towers, 
And  Odin,  and  his  sons,  the  seed  of  heaven  ; 
But  what  were  I,  to  save  them  in  that  hour? 
If  strength  might  save  them,  could  not  Odin  save, 
My  father,  and  his  pride,  the  warrior  Thor, 
Vidar  the  silent,  the  impetuous  Tyr? 
I,  what  were  I,  when  these  can  naught  avail  ? 
Yet,  doubtless,  when  the  day  of  battle  comes, 
And  the  two  hosts  are  marshalled,  and  in  heaven 


BALDER  DEAD.  131 

The  golden-crested  cock  shall  sound  alarm, 

And  his  black  brother-bird  from  hence  reply, 

And  bucklers  clash,  and  spears  begin  to  pour,  — 

Longing  will  stir  within  my  breast,  though  vain. 

But  not  to  me  so  grievous  as,  I  know, 

To  other  gods  it  were,  is  my  enforced 

Absence  from  fields  where  I  could  nothing  aid ; 

For  I  am  long  since  weary  of  your  storm 

Of  carnage,  and  find,  Hermod,  in  your  life 

Something  too  much  of  war  and  broils,  which  make 

Life  one  perpetual  fight,  a  bath  of  blood. 

Mine  eyes  are  dizzy  with  the  arrowy  hail ; 

Mine  ears  are  stunned  with  blows,  and  sick  for  calm. 

Inactive  therefore  let  me  lie,  in  gloom, 

Unarmed,  inglorious  :  I  attend  the  course 

Of  ages,  and  my  late  return  to  light, 

In  times  less  alien  to  a  spirit  mild, 

In  new-recovered  seats,  the  happier  day." 

He  spake,  and  the  fleet  Hermod  thus  replied  :  — 
"  Brother,  what  seats  are  these,  what  happier  day  ? 
Tell  me,  that  I  may  ponder  it  when  gone." 

And  the  ray-crowned  Balder  answered  him,  — 
"  Far  to  the  south,  beyond  the  blue,  there  spreads 
Another  heaven,  the  boundless.     No  one  yet 
Hath  reached  it.     There  hereafter  shall  arise 
The  second  Asgard,  with  another  name. 
Thither,  when  o'er  this  present  earth  and  heavens 
The  tempest  of  the  latter  days  hath  swept, 
And  they  from  sight  have  disappeared  and  sunk, 
Shall  a  small  remnant  of  the  gods  repair ; 
Hoder  and  I  shall  join  them  from  the  grave. 
There  re-assembling  we  shall  see  emerge 
From  the  bright  ocean  at  our  feet  an  earth 
More  fresh,  more  verdant  than  the  last,  with  fruits 


I32  BALDER   DEAD. 

Self-springing,  and  a  seed  of  man  preserved, 

Who  then  shall  live  in  peace,  as  now  in  war. 

But  we  in  heaven  shall  find  again  with  joy 

The  ruined  palaces  of  Odin,  seats 

Familiar,  halls  where  we  have  supped  of  old ; 

Re-enter  them  with  wonder,  never  fill 

Our  eyes  with  gazing,  and  rebuild  with  tears. 

And  we  shall  tread  once  more  the  well-known  plain 

Of  Ida,  and  among  the  grass  shall  find 

The  golden  dice  wherewith  we  played  of  yore ; 

And  that  will  bring  to  mind  the  former  life 

And  pastime  of  the  gods,  the  wise  discourse 

Of  Odin,  the  delights  of  other  days. 

0  Hermod,  pray  that  thou  may'st  join  us  then  ! 
Such  for  the  future  is  my  hope ;  meanwhile, 

1  rest  the  thrall  of  Hela,  and  endure 

Death,  and  the  gloom  which  round  me  even  now 
Thickens,  and  to  its  inner  gulf  recalls. 
Farewell,  for  longer  speech  is  not  allowed  !  " 

He  spoke,  and  waved  farewell,  and  gave  his  hand 
To  Nanna ;  and  she  gave  their  brother  blind 
Her  hand,  in  turn,  for  guidance ;  and  the  three 
Departed  o'er  the  cloudy  plain,  and  soon 
Faded  from  sight  into  the  interior  gloom. 
But  Hermod  stood  beside  his  drooping  horse, 
Mute,  gazing  after  them  in  tears  ;  and  fain, 
Fain  had  he  followed  their  receding  steps, 
Though  they  to  death  were  bound,  and  he  to  heaven, 
Then  :  but  a  power  he  could  not  break  withheld. 
And  as  a  stork  which  idle  boys  have  trapped, 
And  tied  him  in  a  yard,  at  autumn  sees 
Flocks  of  his  kind  pass  flying  o'er  his  head 
To  warmer  lands,  and  coasts  that  keep  the  sun  ; 
He  strains  to  join  their  flight,  and  from  his  shed 


TRISTRAM  AND  ISEULT  1 33 

Follows  them  with  a  long  complaining  cry,  — 
So  Hermod  gazed,  and  yearned  to  join  his  kin. 

At  last  he  sighed,  and  set  forth  back  to  heaven. 


TRISTRAM  AND  ISEULT  J 
1. 

Eristram. 

TRISTRAM. 

Is  she  not  come  ?     The  messenger  was  sure. 

Prop  me  upon  the  pillows  once  again. 

Raise  me,  my  page  !  this  cannot  long  endure. 

—  Christ,  what  a  night  !  how  the  sleet  whips  the  pane  ! 

What  lights  will  those  out  to  the  northward  be  ? 

THE   PAGE. 

The  lanterns  of  the  fishing-boats  at  sea. 

TRISTRAM. 

Soft  —  who  is  that,  stands  by  the  dying  fire  ? 

THE   PAGE. 

Iseult. 

TRISTRAM. 

Ah  !  not  the  Iseult  I  desire. 

What  knight  is  this  so  weak  and  pale. 

Though  the  locks  are  yet  brown  on  his  noble  head, 

Propped  on  pillows  in  his  bed, 

Gazing  seaward  for  the  light 

Of  some  ship  that  fights  the  gale 

On  this  wild  December  night? 


134  TRISTRAM  AND   ISEULT 

Over  the  sick  man's  feet  is  spread 
A  dark  green  forest-dress  ; 
A  gold  harp  leans  against  the  bed, 
Ruddy  in  the  fire's  light. 
I  know  him  by  his  harp  of  gold, 
Famous  in  Arthur's  court  of  old ; 
I  know  him  by  his  forest- dress,  — 
The  peerless  hunter,  harper,  knight, 
*      Tristram  of  Lyoness. 

What  lady  is  this,  whose  silk  attire 

Gleams  so  rich  in  the  light  of  the  fire  ? 

The  ringlets  on  her  shoulders  lying 

In  their  flitting  lustre  vying 

With  the  clasp  of  burnished  gold 

Which  her  heavy  robe  doth  hold. 

Her  looks  are  mild,  her  fingers  slight 

As  the  driven  snow  are  white  ; 

But  her  cheeks  are  sunk  and  pale. 

Is  it  that  the  bleak  sea-gale 

Beating  from  the  Atlantic  sea 

On  this  coast  of  Brittany, 

Nips  too  keenly  the  sweet  flower? 

Is  it  that  a  deep  fatigue 

Hath  come  on  her,  a  chilly  fear, 

Passing  all  her  youthful  hour 

Spinning  with  her  maidens  here, 

Listlessly  through  the  window-bars 

Gazing  seawards  many  a  league 

From  her  lonely  shore-built  tower, 

While  the  knights  are  at  the  wars? 

Or,  perhaps,  has  her  young  heart 

Felt  already  some  deeper  smart, 

Of  those  that  in  secret  the  heart-strings  rive, 


TRISTRAM  AND  ISEULT.  135 

Leaving  her  sunk  and  pale,  though  fair? 
Who  is  this  snowdrop  by  the  sea?  — 
I  know  her  by  her  mildness  rare, 
Her  snow-white  hands,  her  golden  hair ; 
I  know  her  by  her  rich  silk  dress, 
And  her  fragile  loveliness,  — 
The  sweetest  Christian  soul  alive, 
Iseult  of  Brittany. 

Iseult  of  Brittany?  but  where 

Is  that  other  Iseult  fair, 

That  proud,  first  Iseult,  Cornwall's  queen  ? 

She,  whom  Tristram's  ship  of  yore 

From  Ireland  to  Cornwall  bore, 

To  Tyntagel,  to  the  side 

Of  King  Marc,  to  be  his  bride  ? 

She  who,  as  they  voyaged,  quaffed 

With  Tristram  that  spiced  magic  draught 

Which  since  then  forever  rolls 

Through  their  blood,  and  binds  their  souls, 

Working  love,  but  working  teen  ? 

There  were  two  Iseults  who  did  sway 

Each  her  hour  of  Tristram's  day ; 

But  one  possessed  his  waning  time, 

The  other  his  resplendent  prime. 

Behold  her  here,  the  patient  flower, 

Who  possessed  his  darker  hour  ! 

Iseult  of  the  snow-white  hand 

Watches  pale  by  Tristram's  bed. 

She  is  here  who  had  his  gloom  : 

Where  art  thou  who  hadst  his  bloom  ? 

One  such  kiss  as  those  of  yore 

Might  thy  dying  knight  restore  ! 

Does  the  love-draught  work  no  more  ? 


136  TRISTRAM  AND   ISEULT. 

Art  thou  cold,  or  false,  or  dead, 
Iseult  of  Ireland  ? 

Loud  howls  the  wind,  sharp  patters  the  rain, 

And  the  knight  sinks  back  on  his  pillows  again  • 

He  is  weak  with  fever  and  pain, 

And  his  spirit  is  not  clear. 

Hark  !  he  mutters  in  his  sleep, 

As  he  wanders  far  from  here, 

Changes  place  and  time  of  year, 

And  his  closed  eye  doth  sweep 

O'er  some  fair  unwintry  sea, 

Not  this  fierce  Atlantic  deep, 

While  he  mutters  brokenly,  — 

TRISTRAM. 

The  calm  sea  shines,  loose  hang  the  vessel's  sails ; 

Before  us  are  the  sweet  green  fields  of  Wales, 

And  overhead  the  cloudless  sky  of  May. 

"Ah!  would  I  were  in  those  green  fields  at  play, 

Not  pent  on  shipboard  this  delicious  day  ! 

Tristram,  I  pray  thee,  of  thy  courtesy, 

Reach  me  my  golden  cup  that  stands  by  thee, 

But  pledge  me  in  it  first  for  courtesy." 

Ha  !  dost  thou  start?  are  thy  lips  blanched  like  mine? 

Child,  'tis  no  water  this,  'tis  poisoned  wine  ! 

Iseult !  .  .  . 

Ah,  sweet  angels,  let  him  dream  ! 
Keep  his  eyelids  ;  let  him  seem 
Not  this  fever-wasted  wight 
Thinned  and  paled  before  his  time, 
But  the  brilliant  youthful  knight 
In  the  glory  of  his  prime, 


TRISTRAM  AND   ISEULT.  137 

Sitting  in  the  gilded  barge, 

At  thy  side,  thou  lovely  charge, 

Bending  gayly  o'er  thy  hand, 

Iseult  of  Ireland  ! 

And  she  too,  that  princess  fair, 

If  her  bloom  be  now  less  rare, 

Let  her  have  her  youth  again, 

Let  her  be  as  she  was  then  ! 

Let  her  have  her  proud  dark  eyes, 

And  her  petulant  quick  replies  ; 

Let  her  sweep  her  dazzling  hand 

With  its  gesture  of  command, 

And  shake  back  her  raven  hair 

With  the  old  imperious  air  ! 

As  of  old,  so  let  her  be, 

That  first  Iseult,  princess  bright, 

Chatting  with  her  youthful  knight 

As  he  steers  her  o'er  the  sea, 

Quitting  at  her  father's  will 

The  green  isle  where  she  was  bred, 

And  her  bower  in  Ireland, 

For  the  surge-beat  Cornish  strand  ; 

Where  the  prince  whom  she  must  wed 

Dwells  on  loud  Tyntagel's  hill, 

High  above  the  sounding  sea. 

And  that  golden  cup  her  mother 

Gave  her,  that  her  future  lord, 

Gave  her,  that  King  Marc  and  she, 

Might  drink  it  on  their  marriage-day, 

And  forever  love  each  other,  — 

Let  her,  as  she  sits  on  board, 

—  Ah  !  sweet  saints,  unwittingly  !  — 

See  it  shine,  and  take  it  up, 

And  to  Tristram  laughing  say,  — 


138  TRISTRAM  AND  ISEULT. 

"  Sir  Tristram,  of  thy  courtesy, 

Pledge  me  in  my  golden  cup." 

Let  them  drink  it ;  let  their  hands 

Tremble,  and  their  cheeks  be  flame, 

As  they  feel  the  fatal  bands 

Of  a  love  they  dare  not  name, 

With  a  wild  delicious  pain, 

Twine  about  their  hearts  again  ! 

Let  the  early  summer  be 

Once  more  round  them,  and  the  sea 

Blue,  and  o'er  its  mirror  kind 

Let  the  breath  of  the  May-wind, 

Wandering  through  their  drooping  sails, 

Die  on  the  green  fields  of  Wales  ; 

Let  a  dream  like  this  restore 

What  his  eye  must  see  no  more. 

TRISTRAM. 

Chill  blows  the  wind,  the  pleasaunce-walks  are  drear  : 

Madcap,  what  jest  was  this,  to  meet  me  here? 

Were  feet  like  those  made  for  so  wild  a  way? 

The  southern  winter-parlor,  by  my  fay, 

Had  been  the  likeliest  trysting-place  to-day  !  — 

"Tristram! — nay,    nay — thou    must    not   take    my 

hand 7 — 
Tristram!  —  szocet  love!  —  we   are    betrayed — out- 
planned. 
Fly  —  save  thyself —  save  me  !     I  dare  not  stay." 
One  last  kiss  first  !  —  "'Tis  vain  —  to  horse  —  away!" 

Ah  !  sweet  saints,  his  dream  doth  move 
Faster  surely  than  it  should, 
From  the  fever  in  his  blood  ! 
All  the  spring-time  of  his  love 


TRISTRAM  AND   1SEULT.  I  39 

Is  already  gone  and  past, 

And  instead  thereof  is  seen 

Its  winter,  which  endureth  still,  — 

Tyntagel  on  its  surge-beat  hill, 

The  pleasaunce-walks,  the  weeping  queen, 

The  flying  leaves,  the  straining  blast, 

And  that  long,  wild  kiss,  —  their  last. 

And  this  rough  December-night, 

And  his  burning  fever-pain, 

Mingle  with  his  hurrying  dream, 

Till  they  rule  it ;  till  he  seem 

The  pressed  fugitive  again, 

The  love-desperate,  banished  knight, 

With  a  fire  in  his  brain, 

Flying  o'er  the  stormy  main. 

—  Whither  does  he  wander  now? 

Haply  in  his  dreams  the  wind 

Wafts  him  here,  and  lets  him  find 

The  lovely  orphan  child  again 

In  her  castle  by  the  coast ; 

The  youngest,  fairest  chatelaine, 

That  this  realm  of  France  can  boast, 

Our  snowdrop  by  the  Atlantic  sea,  — 

Iseult  of  Brittany. 

And  —  for  through  the  haggard  air, 

The  stained  arms,  the  matted  hair, 

Of  that  stranger-knight  ill-starred, 

There  gleamed  something  which  recalled 

The  Tristram  who  in  better  days 

Was  Launcelot's  guest  at  Joyous  Gard  — 

Welcomed  here,  and  here  installed, 

Tended  of  his  fever  here, 

Haply  he  seems  again  to  move 

His  young  guardian's  heart  with  love. 


140  TRISTRAM  AND   ISEULT 

In  his  exiled  loneliness, 
In  his  stately,  deep  distress, 
Without  a  word,  without  a  tear. 

—  Ah  !  'tis  well  he  should  retrace 
His  tranquil  life  in  this  lone  place ; 
His  gentle  bearing  at  the  side 

Of  his  timid  youthful  bride  ; 

His  long  rambles  by  the  shore 

On  winter-evenings,  when  the  roar 

Of  the  near  waves  came,  sadly  grand, 

Through  the  dark,  up  the  drowned  sand ; 

Or  his  endless  reveries 

In  the  woods,  where  the  gleams  play 

On  the  grass  under  the  trees, 

Passing  the  long  summer's  day 

Idle  as  a  mossy  stone 

In  the  forest-depths  alone, 

The  chase  neglected,  and  his  hound 

Couched  beside  him  on  the  ground. 

—  Ah  !  what  trouble's  on  his  brow? 
Hither  let  him  wander  now ; 
Hither,  to  the  quiet  hours 

Passed  among  these  heaths  of  ours 
By  the  gray  Atlantic  sea,  — 
Hours,  if  not  of  ecstasy, 
From  violent  anguish  surely  free  ! 

TRISTRAM. 

All  red  with  blood  the  whirling  river  flows, 

The    wide    plain    rings,    the    dazed    air    throbs    with 

blows. 
Upon  us  are  the  chivalry  of  Rome  ; 
Their  spears   are   down,   their  steeds  are    bathed   in 

foam. 


TRISTRAM  AND  ISEULT.  141 

"Up,  Tristram,   up!"   men   cry,   "thou    moonstruck 

knight  ! 
What  foul  fiend  rides  thee  ?     On  into  the  fight !  " 
—  Above  the  din,  her  voice  is  in  my  ears  ; 
I  see  her  form  glide  through  the  crossing  spears.  — 
Iseult !  .  .  . 


Ah  !  he  wanders  forth  again  ; 

We  cannot  keep  him  :  now,  as  then, 

There's  a  secret  in  his  breast 

Which  will  never  let  him  rest. 

These  musing  fits  in  the  green  wood, 

They  cloud  the  brain,  they  dull  the  blood  ! 

—  His  sword  is  sharp,  his  horse  is  good ; 
Beyond  the  mountains  will  he  see 

The  famous  towns  of  Italy, 

And  label  with  the  blessed  sign 

The  heathen  Saxons  on  the  Rhine. 

At  Arthur's  side  he  fights  once  more 

With  the  Roman  Emperor. 

There's  many  a  gay  knight  where  he  goes 

Will  help  him  to  forget  his  care  ; 

The  march,  the  leaguer,  heaven's  blithe  air, 

The  neighing  steeds,  the  ringing  blows,  — 

Sick  pining  comes  not  where  these  are. 

—  Ah  !  what  boots  it,  that  the  jest 
Lightens  every  other  brow, 
What,  that  every  other  breast 
Dances  as  the  trumpets  blow, 

If  one's  own  heart  beats  not  light 
On  the  waves  of  the  tossed  fight, 
If  one's  self  cannot  get  free 
From  the  clog  of  misery? 


142  TRISTRAM  AND   ISEULT. 

Thy  lovely  youthful  wife  grows  pale 
Watching  by  the  salt  sea-tide, 
With  her  children  at  her  side, 
For  the  gleam  of  thy  white  sail. 
Home,  Tristram,  to  thy  halls  again  ! 
To  our  lonely  sea  complain, 
To  our  forests  tell  thy  pain. 

TRISTRAM. 

All  round  the  forest  sweeps  off,  black  in  shade, 
But  it  is  moonlight  in  the  open  glade  ; 
And  in  the  bottom  of  the  glade  shine  clear 
The  forest-chapel  and  the  fountain  near. 

—  I  think  I  have  a  fever  in  my  blood  ; 
Come,  let  me  leave  the  shadow  of  this  wood, 
Ride  down,  and  bathe  my  hot  brow  in  the  flood. 

—  Mild  shines  the  cold  spring  in  the  moon's  clear 

light. 
God  !  'tis  her  face  plays  in  the  waters  bright  ! 
"  Fair  love,"  she  says,  "  canst  thou  forget  so  soon, 
At  this  soft  hour,  under  this  sweet  moon?"  — 
Iseult !  .  .  . 


Ah,  poor  soul  !  if  this  be  so, 
Only  death  can  balm  thy  woe. 
The  solitudes  of  the  green  wood 
Had  no  medicine  for  thy  mood  ; 
The  rushing  battle  cleared  thy  blood 
As  little  as  did  solitude. 
—  Ah  !  his  eyelids  slowly  break 
Their  hot  seals,  and  let  him  wake  ; 
What  new  change  shall  we  now  see  ? 
A  happier?     Worse  it  cannot  be. 


TRISTRAM  AND   ISEULT.  1 43 

TRISTRAM. 

Is  my  page  here?     Come,  turn  me  to  the  fire  ! 
Upon  the  window-panes  the  moon  shines  bright ; 
The  wind  is  down ;  but  she'll  not  come  to-night. 
Ah,  no  !  she  is  asleep  in  Cornwall  now, 
Far  hence ;  her  dreams  are  fair,  smooth  is  her  brow. 
Of  me  she  recks  not,  nor  my  vain  desire. 

—  I  have  had  dreams,  I  have  had  dreams,  my  page, 
Would  take  a  score  years  from  a  strong  man's  age ; 
And  with  a  blood  like  mine,  will  leave,  I  fear, 
Scant  leisure  for  a  second  messenger. 

—  My  princess,  art  thou  there  ?     Sweet,  'tis  too  late  ! 
To  bed,  and  sleep  !  my  fever  is  gone  by ; 
To-night  my  page  shall  keep  me  company. 

Where  do  the  children  sleep  ?  kiss  them  for  me  ! 
Poor  child,  thou  art  almost  as  pale  as  I : 
This  comes  of  nursing  long  and  watching  late. 
To  bed  —  good  night ! 

•  ••*•• 

She  left  the  gleam-lit  fireplace, 
She  came  to  the  bedside  ; 
She  took  his  hands  in  hers,  her  tears 
Down  on  her  slender  fingers  rained. 
She  raised  her  eyes  upon  his  face, 
Not  with  a  look  of  wounded  pride, 
A  look  as  if  the  heart  complained ; 
Her  look  was  like  a  sad  embrace,  — 
The  gaze  of  one  who  can  divine 
A  grief,  and  sympathize. 
Sweet  flower  !  thy  children's  eyes 
Are  not  more  innocent  than  thine. 

But  they  sleep  in  sheltered  rest, 
Like  helpless  birds  in  the  warm  nest, 
On  the  castle's  southern  side  ; 


144  TRISTRAM  AND    ISEULT. 

Where  feebly  comes  the  mournful  roar 
Of  buffeting  wind  and  surging  tide 
Through  many  a  room  and  corridor. 

—  Full  on  their  window  the  moon's  ray 
Makes  their  chamber  as  bright  as  day. 
It  shines  upon  the  blank  white  walls, 
And  on  the  snowy  pillow  falls, 

And  on  two  angel-heads  doth  play 

Turned  to  each  other ;  the  eyes  closed, 

The  lashes  on  the  cheeks  reposed. 

Round  each  sweet  brow  the  cap  close-set 

Hardly  lets  peep  the  golden  hair ; 

Through  the  soft-opened  lips,  the  air 

Scarcely  moves  the  coverlet. 

One  little  wandering  arm  is  thrown 

At  random  on  the  counterpane, 

And  often  the  fingers  close  in  haste 

As  if  their  baby-owner  chased 

The  butterflies  again. 

This  stir  they  have,  and  this  alone ; 

But  else  they  are  so  still ! 

—  Ah,  tired  madcaps  !  you  lie  still ; 
But  were  you  at  the  window  now, 
To  look  forth  on  the  fairy  sight 

Of  your  illumined  haunts  by  night, 
To  see  the  park-glades  where  you  play 
Far  lovelier  than  they  are  by  day, 
To  see  the  sparkle  on  the  eaves, 
And  upon  every  giant-bough 
Of  those  old  oaks,  whose  wet  red  leaves 
Are  jewelled  with  bright  drops  of  rain,  — 
How  would  your  voices  run  again  ! 
And  far  beyond  the  sparkling  trees 
Of  the  castle-park,  one  sees 


TRISTRAM  AND   1SEULT  1 45 

The  bare  heaths  spreading,  clear  as  day, 
Moor  behind  moor,  far,  far  away, 
Into  the  heart  of  Brittany. 
And  here  and  there,  locked  by  the  land, 
Long  inlets  of  smooth  glittering  sea, 
And  many  a  stretch  of  watery  sand 
All  shining  in  the  white  moonbeams. 
But  you  see  fairer  in  your  dreams  ! 

What  voices  are  these  on  the  clear  night  air  ? 

What  lights  in  the  court,  what  steps  on  the  stair? 


TRISTRAM  AND  ISEULT 
II. 

Igfult  of  Ireland 

TRISTRAM. 

Raise  the  light,  my  page  !  that  I  may  see  her.  — 
Thou  art  come  at  last,  then,  haughty  queen  ! 

Long  I've  waited,  long  I've  fought  my  fever ; 
Late  thou  comest,  cruel  thou  hast  been. 

ISEULT. 

Blame  me  not,  poor  sufferer  !  that  I  tarried  : 
Bound  I  was,  I  could  not  break  the  band. 

Chide  not  with  the  past,  but  feel  the  present  j 
I  am  here,  we  meet,  I  hold  thy  hand. 

TRISTRAM. 

Thou  art  come,  indeed  ;  thou  hast  rejoined  me  ; 

Thou  hast  dared  it  —  but  too  late  to  save. 
Fear  not  now  that  men  should  tax  thine  honor  ! 

I  am  dying ;  build  (thou  may'st)  my  grave. 


I46  TRISTRAM  AND   ISEULT. 

ISEULT. 

Tristram,  ah  !  for  love  of  heaven,  speak  kindly  ! 

What !  I  hear  these  bitter  words  from  thee  ? 
Sick  with  grief  I  am,  and  faint  with  travel ; 

Take  my  hand  —  dear  Tristram,  look  on  me  ! 

TRISTRAM. 

I  forgot,  thou  comest  from  thy  voyage ; 

Yes,  the  spray  is  on  thy  cloak  and  hair. 
But  thy  dark  eyes  are  not  dimmed,  proud  Iseult ! 

And  thy  beauty  never  was  more  fair. 

ISEULT. 

Ah,  harsh  flatterer  !  let  alone  my  beauty  ! 

I,  like  thee,  have  left  my  youth  afar. 
Take  my  hand,  and  touch  these  wasted  fingers ; 

See  my  cheek  and  lips,  how  white  they  are  ! 

TRISTRAM. 

Thou  art  paler ;  but  thy  sweet  charm,  Iseult, 
Would  not  fade  with  the  dull  years  away. 

Ah,  how  fair  thou  standest  in  the  moonlight ! 
I  forgive  thee,  Iseult !  thou  wilt  stay? 

ISEULT. 

Fear  me  not,  I  will  be  always  with  thee ; 

I  will  watch  thee,  tend  thee,  soothe  thy  pain  ; 
Sing  thee  tales  of  true,  long-parted  lovers, 

Joined  at  evening  of  their  days  again. 

TRISTRAM. 

No,  thou  shalt  not  speak  !     I  should  be  finding 
Something  altered  in  thy  courtly  tone. 

Sit  —  sit  by  me  !  I  will  think,  we've  lived  so 
In  the  green  wood,  all  our  lives,  alone. 


TRISTRAM  AND  ISEULT.  1 47 

ISEULT. 
Altered,  Tristram  ?     Not  in  courts,  believe  me, 

Love  like  mine  is  altered  in  the  breast : 
Courtly  life  is  light,  and  cannot  reach  it ; 

Ah  !  it  lives,  because  so  deep-suppressed  ! 

What !  thou  think'st  men  speak  in  courtly  chambers 
Words  by  which  the  wretched  are  consoled  ? 

What !  thou  think'st  this  aching  brow  was  cooler, 
Circled,  Tristram,  by  a  band  of  gold  ? 

Royal  state  with  Marc,  my  deep-wronged  husband,  — 
That  was  bliss  to  make  my  sorrows  flee  ! 

Silken  courtiers  whispering  honeyed  nothings,  — 
Those  were  friends  to  make  me  false  to  thee  ! 

Ah  !  on  which,  if  both  our  lots  were  balanced, 
Was  indeed  the  heaviest  burden  thrown,  — 

Thee,  a  pining  exile  in  thy  forest, 

Me,  a  smiling  queen  upon  my  throne  ? 

Vain  and  strange  debate,  where  both  have  suffered, 
Both  have  passed  a  youth  repressed  and  sad, 

Both  have  brought  their  anxious  day  to  evening, 
And  have  now  short  space  for  being  glad  ! 

Joined  we  are  henceforth ;  nor  will  thy  people 

Nor  thy  younger  Iseult  take  it  ill, 
That  a  former  rival  shares  her  office, 

When  she  sees  her  humbled,  pale,  and  still. 

I,  a  faded  watcher  by  thy  pillow, 

I,  a  statue  on  thy  chapel-floor, 
Poured  in  prayer  before  the  Virgin-Mother, 

Rouse  no  anger,  make  no  rivals  more. 


I48  TRISTRAM  AND    ISEULT. 

She  will  cry,  "  Is  this  the  foe  I  dreaded  ? 

This  his  idol,  this  that  royal  bride  ? 
Ah  !  an  hour  of  health  would  purge  his  eyesight ! 

Stay,  pale  queen,  forever  by  my  side." 

Hush,  no  words  !  that  smile,  I  see,  forgives  me. 

I  am  now  thy  nurse,  I  bid  thee  sleep. 
Close  thine  eyes  :  this  flooding  moonlight  blinds  them. 

Nay,  all's  well  again  !  thou  must  not  weep. 

TRISTRAM. 

I  am  happy  !  yet  I  feel  there's  something 
Swells  my  heart,  and  takes  my  breath  away. 

Through  a  mist  I  see  thee  ;  near  —  come  nearer  ! 
Bend  —  bend  down  !  I  yet  have  much  to  say. 

ISEULT. 

Heaven  !  his  head  sinks  back  upon  the  pillow.  — 
Tristram  !  Tristram  !  let  thy  heart  not  fail ! 

Call  on  God  and  on  the  holy  angels  ! 

What,  love,  courage  !  —  Christ !  he  is  so  pale. 

TRISTRAM. 

Hush,  'tis  vain  :  I  feel  my  end  approaching. 

This  is  what  my  mother  said  should  be, 
When  the  fierce  pains  took  her  in  the  forest, 

The  deep  draughts  of  death,  in  bearing  me. 

"Son,"  she  said,  "thy  name  shall  be  of  sorrow; 

Tristram  art  thou  called  for  my  death's  sake." 
So  she  said,  and  died  in  the  drear  forest. 

Grief  since  then  his  home  with  me  doth  make, 


TRISTRAM  AND   ISEULT.  1 49 

I  am  dying.     Start  not,  nor  look  wildly  ! 

Me,  thy  living  friend,  thou  canst  not  save. 
But,  since  living  we  were  ununited, 

Go  not  far,  O  Iseult !  from  my  grave. 

Close  mine  eyes,  then  seek  the  princess  Iseult ; 

Speak  her  fair,  she  is  of  royal  blood. 
Say,  I  charged  her,  that  thou  stay  beside  me  : 

She  will  grant  it ;  she  is  kind  and  good. 

Now  to  sail  the  seas  of  death  I  leave  thee  — 
One  last  kiss  upon  the  living  shore  ! 

ISEULT. 

Tristram  !  Tristram  !  stay — receive  me  with  thee  ! 
Iseult  leaves  thee,  Tristram  !  nevermore. 

•  ••••••• 

You  see  them  clear  —  the  moon  shines  bright. 

Slow,  slow  and  softly,  where  she  stood, 

She  sinks  upon  the  ground ;  her  hood 

Had  fallen  back,  her  arms  outspread 

Still  hold  her  lover's  hands  ;  her  head 

Is  bowed,  half-buried,  on  the  bed. 

O'er  the  blanched  sheet,  her  raven  hair 

Lies  in  disordered  streams  ;  and  there, 

Strung  like  white  stars,  the  pearls  still  are ; 

And  the  golden  bracelets,  heavy  and  rare, 

Flash  on  her  white  arms  still,  — 

The  very  same  which  yesternight 

Flashed  in  the  silver  sconces'  light, 

When  the  feast  was  gay  and  the  laughter  loud 

In  Tyntagel's  palace  proud. 

But  then  they  decked  a  restless  ghost 


15°  TRISTRAM  AND   ISEULT. 

With  hot-flushed  cheeks  and  brilliant  eyes, 

And  quivering  lips  on  which  the  tide 

Of  courtly  speech  abruptly  died, 

And  a  glance  which  over  the  crowded  floor, 

The  dancers,  and  the  festive  host, 

Flew  ever  to  the  door ; 

That  the  knights  eyed  her  in  surprise, 

And  the  dames  whispered  scoffingly,  — 

"  Her  moods,  good  lack,  they  pass  like  showers  ! 

But  yesternight  and  she  would  be 

As  pale  and  still  as  withered  flowers ; 

And  now  to-night  she  laughs  and  speaks, 

And  has  a  color  in  her  cheeks. 

Christ  keep  us  from  such  fantasy  ! "  — 

Yes,  now  the  longing  is  o'erpast, 

Which,  dogged  by  fear  and  fought  by  shame 

Shook  her  weak  bosom  day  and  night, 

Consumed  her  beauty  like  a  flame, 

And  dimmed  it  like  the  desert-blast. 

And  though  the  curtains  hide  her  face, 

Yet,  were  it  lifted  to  the  light, 

The  sweet  expression  of  her  brow 

Would  charm  the  gazer,  till  his  thought 

Erased  the  ravages  of  time, 

Filled  up  the  hollow  cheek,  and  brought 

A  freshness  back  as  of  her  prime,  — 

So  healing  is  her  quiet  now ; 

So  perfectly  the  lines  express 

A  tranquil,  settled  loveliness, 

Her  younger  rival's  purest  grace. 

The  air  of  the  December-night 

Steals  coldly  around  the  chamber  bright, 


TRISTRAM  AND  ISEULT.  15  I 

Where  those  lifeless  lovers  be. 

Swinging  with  it,  in  the  light 

Flaps  the  ghost-like  tapestry. 

And  on  the  arras  wrought  you  see 

A  stately  huntsman,  clad  in  green, 

And  round  him  a  fresh  forest-scene. 

On  that  clear  forest-knoll  he  stays, 

With  his  pack  round  him,  and  delays. 

He  stares  and  stares,  with  troubled  face, 

At  this  huge,  gleam-lit  fireplace, 

At  that  bright,  iron-figured  door, 

And  those  blown  rushes  on  the  floor. 

He  gazes  down  into  the  room 

With  heated  cheeks  and  flurried  air, 

And  to  himself  he  seems  to  say,  — 

"  What  place  is  this,  and  who  are  they? 

Who  is  that  kneeling  lady  fair? 

And  on  his  pillows  that  pale  knight 

Who  seems  of  marble  on  a  tomb? 

How  comes  it  here,  this  chamber  bright, 

Through  whose  mullioned  windows  clear 

The  castle-court  all  wet  with  rain, 

The  drawbridge  and  the  moat  appear, 

And  then  the  beach,  and,  marked  with  spray, 

The  sunken  reefs,  and  far  away 

The  unquiet  bright  Atlantic  plain  ? 

—  What!  has  some  glamour  made  me  sleep, 

And  sent  me  with  my  dogs  to  sweep, 

By  night,  with  boisterous  bugle  peal, 

Thro2igh  some  old,  sea-side,  knightly  hall, 

Not  in  the  free  green  wood  at  all  ? 

That  knight's  asleep,  and  at  her  prayer 

That  lady  by  the  bed  doth  kneel — 

Then  hush,  thou  boisterous  bugle-peal '/ 


I$2  TRISTRAM  AND  ISEULT. 

—  The  wild  boar  rustles  in  his  lair ; 
The  fierce  hounds  snuff  the  tainted  air; 
But  lord  and  hounds  keep  rooted  there. 

Cheer,  cheer  thy  dogs  into  the  brake, 
O  hunter  !  and  without  a  fear 
Thy  golden-tasselled  bugle  blow, 
And  through  the  glades  thy  pastime  take 
For  thou  wilt  rouse  no  sleepers  here  ! 
For  these  thou  seest  are  unmoved ; 
Cold,  cold  as  those  who  lived  and  loved 
A  thousand  years  ago. 


TRISTRAM  AND  ISEULT. 
III. 

frscult  of  Brittamj. 

A  year  had  flown,  and  o'er  the  sea  away, 
In  Cornwall,  Tristram  and  Queen  Iseult  lay ; 
In  King  Marc's  chapel,  in  Tyntagel  old  : 
There  in  a  ship  they  bore  those  lovers  cold. 

The  young  surviving  Iseult,  one  bright  day, 
Had  wandered  forth.     Her  children  were  at  play 
In  a  green  circular  hollow  in  the  heath 
Which  borders  the  seashore  ;  a  country  path 
Creeps  over  it  from  the  tilled  fields  behind. 
The  hollow's  grassy  banks  are  soft-inclined  ; 
And  to  one  standing  on  them,  far  and  near 
The  lone  unbroken  view  spreads  bright  and  clear 
Over  the  waste.     This  cirque  of  open  ground 
Is  light  and  green ;  the  heather,  which  all  round 


TRISTRAM  AND   ISEULT.  I  53 

Creeps  thickly,  grows  not  here ;  but  the  pale  grass 

Is  strewn  with  rocks  and  many  a  shivered  mass 

Of  veined  white-gleaming  quartz,  and  here  and  there 

Dotted  with  holly-trees  and  juniper. 

In  the  smooth  centre  of  the  opening  stood 

Three  hollies  side  by  side,  and  made  a  screen, 

Warm  with  the  winter-sun,  of  burnished  green 

With  scarlet  berries  gemmed,  the  fell-fare's  food. 

Under  the  glittering  hollies  Iseult  stands, 

Watching  her  children  play  :  their  little  hands 

Are  busy  gathering  spars  of  quartz,  and  streams 

Of  stagshorn  for  their  hats ;  anon,  with  screams 

Of  mad  delight  they  drop  their  spoils,  and  bound 

Among  the  holly- clumps  and  broken  ground, 

Racing  full  speed,  and  startling  in  their  rush 

The  fell-fares  and  the  speckled  missel-thrush 

Out  of  their  glossy  coverts ;  but  when  now 

Their  cheeks  were  flushed,  and  over  each  hot  brow, 

Under  the  feathered  hats  of  the  sweet  pair, 

In  blinding  masses  showered  the  golden  hair, 

Then  Iseult  called  them  to  her,  and  the  three 

Clustered  under  the  holly-screen,  and  she 

Told  them  an  old-world  Breton  history. 

Warm  in  their  mantles  wrapped,  the  three  stood  there, 
Under  the  hollies,  in  the  clear  still  air,  — 
Mantles  with  those  rich  furs  deep  glistering 
Which  Venice  ships  do  from  swart  Egypt  bring. 
Long  they  stayed  still,  then,  pacing  at  their  ease, 
Moved  up  and  down  under  the  glossy  trees  ; 
But  still,  as  they  pursued  their  warm  dry  road, 
From  Iseult's  lips  the  unbroken  story  flowed, 
And  still  the  children  listened,  their  blue  eyes 
Fixed  on  their  mother's  face  in  wide  surprise. 


154  TRISTRAM  AND  ISEULT. 

Nor  did  their  looks  stray  once  to  the  sea-side, 
Nor  to  the  brown  heaths  round  them,  bright  and  wide, 
Nor  to  the  snow,  which,  though  'twas  all  away 
From  the  open  heath,  still  by  the  hedgerows  lay, 
Nor  to  the  shining  sea-fowl,  that  with  screams 
Bore  up  from  where  the  bright  Atlantic  gleams, 
Swooping  to  landward  ;  nor  to  where,  quite  clear, 
The  fell-fares  settled  on  the  thickets  near. 
And  they  would  still  have  listened,  till  dark  night 
Came  keen  and  chill  down  on  the  heather  bright ; 
But  when  the  red  glow  on  the  sea  grew  cold, 
And  the  gray  turrets  of  the  castle  old 
Looked  sternly  through  the  frosty  evening-air, 
Then  Iseult  took  by  the  hand  those  children  fair, 
And  brought  her  tale  to  an  end,  and  found  the  path. 
And  led  them  home  over  the  darkening  heath. 
And  is  she  happy?     Does  she  see  unmoved 
The  days  in  which  she  might  have  lived  and  loved 
Slip  without  bringing  bliss  slowly  away, 
One* after  one,  to-morrow  like  to-day? 
Joy  has  not  found  her  yet,  nor  ever  will : 
Is  it  this  thought  which  makes  her  mien  so  still, 
Her  features  so  fatigued,  her  eyes,  though  sweet, 
So  sunk,  so  rarely  lifted  save  to  meet 
Her  children's  ?     She  moves  slow  ;  her  voice  alone 
Hath  yet  an  infantine  and  silver  tone, 
But  even  that  comes  languidly ;  in  truth, 
She  seems  one  dying  in  a  mask  of  youth. 
And  now  she  will  go  home,  and  softly  lay 
Her  laughing  children  in  their  beds,  and  play 
A  while  with  them  before  they  sleep ;  and  then 
She'll  light  her  silver  lamp, — which  fishermen 
Dragging  their  nets  through  the  rough  waves  afar, 
Along  this  iron  coast,  know  like  a  star,  — 


TRISTRAM  AND   ISEULT.  I  55 

And  take  her  broidery-frame,  and  there  she'll  sit 

Hour  after  hour,  her  gold  curls  sweeping  it ; 

Lifting  her  soft-bent  head  only  to  mind 

Her  children,  or  to  listen  to  the  wind. 

And  when  the  clock  peals  midnight,  she  will  move 

Her  work  away,  and  let  her  fingers  rove 

Across  the  shaggy  brows  of  Tristram's  hound, 

Who  lies,  guarding  her  feet,  along  the  ground  ; 

Or  else  she  will  fall  musing,  her  blue  eyes 

Fixed,  her   slight   hands    clasped    on   her  lap ;    then 

rise, 
And  at  her  prie-dieu  kneel,  until  she  have  told 
Her  rosary-beads  of  ebony  tipped  with  gold  ; 
Then  to  her  soft  sleep  —  and  to-morrow'll  be 
To-day's  exact  repeated  effigy. 
Yes,  it  is  lonely  for  her  in  her  hall. 
The  children,  and  the  gray-haired  seneschal, 
Her  women,  and  Sir  Tristram's  aged  hound, 
Are  there  the  sole  companions  to  be  found. 
But  these  she  loves  ;  and  noisier  life  than  this 
She  would  find  ill  to  bear,  weak  as  she  is. 
She  has  her  children,  too,  and  night  and  day 
Is  with  them ;  and  the  wide  heaths  where  they  play, 
The  hollies,  and  the  cliff,  and  the  sea-shore, 
The  sand,  the  sea-birds,  and  the  distant  sails, 
These  are  to  her  dear  as  to  them  ;  the  tales 
With  which  this  day  the  children  she  beguiled 
She  gleaned  from  Breton  grandames,  when  a  child, 
In  every  hut  along  this  sea-coast  wild  ; 
She  herself  loves  them  still,  and,  when  they  are  told, 
Can  forget  all  to  hear  them,  as  of  old. 

Dear  saints,  it  is  not  sorrow,  as  I  hear, 
Not  suffering,  which  shuts  up  eye  and  ear 


I56  TRISTRAM  AND   ISEULT. 

To  all  that  has  delighted  them  before, 

And  lets  us  be  what  we  were  once  no  more. 

No  :  we  may  suffer  deeply,  yet  retain 

Power  to  be  moved  and  soothed,  for  all  our  pain, 

By  what  of  old  pleased  us,  and  will  again. 

No :  'tis  the  gradual  furnace  of  the  world, 

In  whose  hot  air  our  spirits  are  upcurled 

Until  they  crumble,  or  else  grow  like  steel, 

Which  kills  in  us  the  bloom,  the  youth,  the  spring ; 

Which  leaves  the  fierce  necessity  to  feel, 

But  takes  away  the  power  :  this  can  avail, 

By  drying  up  our  joy  in  every  thing, 

To  make  our  former  pleasures  all  seem  stale. 

This,  or  some  tyrannous  single  thought,  some  fit 

Of  passion,  which  subdues  our  souls  to  it, 

Till  for  its  sake  alone  we  live  and  move,  — 

Call  it  ambition,  or  remorse,  or  love,  — 

Tli  is  too  can  change  us  wholly,  and  make  seem 

All  which  we  did  before,  shadow  and  dream. 

And  yet,  I  swear,  it  angers  me  to  see 
How  this  fool  passion  gulls  men  potently ; 
Being,  in  truth,  but  a  diseased  unrest, 
And  an  unnatural  overheat  at  best. 
How  they  are  full  of  languor  and  distress 
Not  having  it ;  which  when  they  do  possess, 
They  straightway  are  burnt  up  with  fume  and  care, 
And  spend  their  lives  in  posting  here  and  there 
Where  this  plague  drives  them ;  and  have  little  ease. 
Are  furious  with  themselves,  and  hard  to  please. 
Like  that  bald  Csesar,  the  famed  Roman  wight, 
Who  wept  at  reading  of  a  Grecian  knight 
Who  made  a  name  at  younger  years  than  he  ; 
Or  that  renowned  mirror  of  chivalry, 
Prince  Alexander,  Philip's  peerless  son, 


TRISTRAM  AND  ISEULT.  I $7 

Who  carried  the  great  war  from  Macedon 
Into  the  Soudan's  realm,  and  thundered  on 
To  die  at  thirty-five  in  Babylon. 

What  tale  did  Iseult  to  the  children  say, 
Under  the  hollies,  that  bright  winter's  day? 

She  told  them  of  the  fairy-haunted  land 

Away  the  other  side  of  Brittany, 

Beyond  the  heaths,  edged  by  the  lonely  sea ; 

Of  the  deep  forest-glades  of  Broce-liande, 

Through  whose   green   boughs   the   golden   sunshine 

creeps, 
Where  Merlin  by  the  enchanted  thorn-tree  sleeps. 
For  here  he  came  with  the  fay  Vivian, 
One  April,  when  the  warm  days  first  began. 
He  was  on  foot,  and  that  false  fay,  his  friend, 
On  her  white  palfrey ;  here  he  met  his  end, 
In  these  lone  sylvan  glades,  that  April-day. 
This  tale  of  Merlin  and  the  lovely  fay 
Was  the  one  Iseult  chose,  and  she  brought  clear 
Before  the  children's  fancy  him  and  her. 

Blowing  between  the  stems,  the  forest-air 

Had  loosened  the  brown  locks  of  Vivian's  hair, 

Which  played  on  her  flushed  cheek,  and  her  blue  eyes 

Sparkled  with  mocking  glee  and  exercise. 

Her  palfrey's  flanks  were  mired  and  bathed  in  sweat, 

For  they  had  travelled  far  and  not  stopped  yet. 

A  brier  in  that  tangled  wilderness 

Had  scored  her  white  right  hand,  which  she  allows 

To  rest  ungloved  on  her  green  riding-dress  ; 

The  other  warded  off  the  drooping  boughs. 

But  still  she  chatted  on,  with  her  blue  eyes 

Fixed  full  on  Merlin's  face,  her  stately  prize. 


158  TRISTRAM  AND   ISEULT. 

Her  'havior  had  the  morning's  fresh  clear  grace, 
The  spirit  of  the  woods  was  in  her  face  ; 
She  looked  so  witching  fair,  that  learned  wight 
Forgot  his  craft,  and  his  best  wits  took  flight, 
And  he  grew  fond,  and  eager  to  obey 
His  mistress,  use  her  empire  as  she  may. 


They  came  to  where  the  brushwood  ceased,  and  day 

Peered  'twixt  the  stems ;  and  the  ground  broke  away 

In  a  sloped  sward  down  to  a  brawling  brook. 

And  up  as  high  as  where  they  stood  to  look 

On  the  brook's  farther  side  was  clear ;  but  then 

The  underwood  and  trees  began  again. 

This  open  glen  was  studded  thick  with  thorns 

Then  white  with  blossom ;  and  you  saw  the  horns, 

Through  last  year's  fern,  of  the  shy  fallow-deer 

Who  come  at  noon  down  to  the  water  here. 

You  saw  the  bright-eyed  squirrels  dart  along 

Under  the  thorns  on  the  green  sward ;  and  strong 

The  blackbird  whistled  from  the  dingles  near, 

And  the  weird  chipping  of  the  woodpecker 

Rang  lonelily  and  sharp  ;  the  sky  was  fair, 

And  a  fresh  breath  of  spring  stirred  everywhere. 

Merlin  and  Vivian  stopped  on  the  slope's  brow, 

To  gaze  on  the  light  sea  of  leaf  and  bough 

Which  glistering  plays  all  round  them,  lone  and  mild, 

As  if  to  itself  the  quiet  forest  smiled. 

Upon  the  brow-top  grew  a  thorn,  and  here 

The  grass  was  dry  and  mossed,  and  you  saw  clear 

Across  the  hollow  ;  white  anemones 

Starred  the  cool  turf,  and  clumps  of  primroses 

Ran  out  from  the  dark  underwood  behind. 

No  fairer  resting-place  a  man  could  find. 


SAINT  B RANDAN.  I  59 

"  Here  let  us  halt,"  said  Merlin  then ;  and  she 
Nodded,  and  tied  her  palfrey  to  a  tree. 

They  sate  them  down  together,  and  a  sleep 

Fell  upon  Merlin,  more  like  death,  so  deep. 

Her  finger  on  her  lips,  then  Vivian  rose, 

And  from  her  brown-locked  head  the  wimple  throws, 

And  takes  it  in  her  hand,  and  waves  it  over 

The  blossomed  thorn-tree  and  her  sleeping  lover. 

Nine  times  she  waved  the  fluttering  wimple  round, 

And  made  a  little  plot  of  magic  ground. 

And  in  that  daisied  circle,  as  men  say, 

Is  Merlin  prisoner  till  the  judgment-day  ; 

But  she  herself  whither  she  will  can  rove  — 

For  she  was  passing  weary  of  his  love. 


SAINT  BRAND  AN. 

Saint  Brandan  sails  the  northern  main  ; 
The  brotherhoods  of  saints  are  glad. 
He  greets  them  once,  he  sails  again ; 
So  late  !  such  storms  !     The  saint  is  mad  ! 

He  heard,  across  the  howling  seas, 
Chime  convent-bells  on  wintry  nights; 
He  saw,  on  spray-swept  Hebrides, 
Twinkle  the  monastery-liglits  ; 

But  north,  still  north,  Saint  Brandan  steered ; 
And  now  no  bells,  no  convents  more  ! 
The  hurtling  Polar  lights  are  neared, 
The  sea  without  a  human  shore. 


l6o  SAINT  B RANDAN. 

At  last  (it  was  the  Christmas-night ; 
Stars  shone  after  a  day  of  storm) 
He  sees  float  past  an  iceberg  white, 
And  on  it  —  Christ !  —  a  living  form. 

That  furtive  mien,  that  scowling  eye, 
Of  hair  that  red  and  tufted  fell, 
It  is  —  oh,  where  shall  Brandan  fly  ?  — 
The  traitor  Judas,  out  of  hell  ! 

Palsied  with  terror,  Brandan  sate ; 
The  moon  was  bright,  the  iceberg  near. 
He  hears  a  voice  sigh  humbly,  "  Wait ! 
By  high  permission  I  am  here. 

"  One  moment  wait,  thou  holy  man  ! 
On  earth  my  crime,  my  death,  they  knew ; 
My  name  is  under  all  men's  ban  : 
Ah  !  tell  them  of  my  respite  too. 

"Tell  them,  one  blessed  Christmas-night 
(It  was  the  first  after  I  came, 
Breathing  self-murder,  frenzy,  spite, 
To  rue  my  guilt  in  endless  flame), — 

"  I  felt,  as  I  in  torment  lay 
'Mid  the  souls  plagued  by  heavenly  power, 
An  angel  touch  mine  arm,  and  say,  — 
Go  hence,  and  coo!  thyself  an  hour/ 

"  '  Ah  !  whence  this  mercy,  Lord  ?  '  I  said. 
The  leper  recollect,  said  he, 
Who  asked  the  passers-by  for  aid, 
In  Joppa,  and  thy  charity. 

"Then  I  remembered  how  I  went, 
In  Joppa,  through  the  public  street, 
One  morn  when  the  sirocco  spent 
Its  storms  of  dust  with  burning  heat; 


SAINT  BRAND  AN.  l6l 

"  And  in  the  street  a  leper  sate, 
Shivering  with  fever,  naked,  old  ; 
Sand  raked  his  sores  from  heel  to  pate, 
The  hot  wind  fevered  him  fivefold. 

"  He  gazed  upon  me  as  I  passed, 
And  murmured,  Help  me,  or  I  die  ! 
To  the  poor  wretch  my  cloak  I  cast, 
Saw  him  look  eased,  and  hurried  by. 

"  O  Brandan  !  think  what  grace  divine, 
What  blessing  must  full  goodness  shower, 
When  fragment  of  it  small,  like  mine, 
Hath  such  inestimable  power  ! 

"  Well-fed,  well-clothed,  well-friended,  I 
Did  that  chance  act  of  good,  that  one  ! 
Then  went  my  way  to  kill  and  lie, 
Forgot  my  good  as  soon  as  done. 

"  That  germ  of  kindness,  in  the  womb 
Of  mercy  caught,  did  not  expire  ; 
Outlives  my  guilt,  outlives  my  doom, 
And  friends  me  in  the  pit  of  fire. 

"  Once  every  year,  when  carols  wake, 
On  earth,  the  Christmas-night's  repose, 
Arising  from  the  sinner's  lake, 
I  journey  to  these  healing  snows. 

"  I  stanch  with  ice  my  burning  breast, 
With  silence  balm  my  whirling  brain. 
O  Brandan  !  to  this  hour  of  rest, 
That  Joppan  leper's  ease  was  pain." 

Tears  started  to  Saint  Brandan's  eyes  ; 
He  bowed  his  head,  he  breathed  a  prayer, 
Then  looked  —  and  lo,  the  frosty  skies  ! 
The  iceberg,  and  no  Judas  there  ! 


1 62  THE  NEC  KAN. 


THE  NEC  KAN. 

In  summer,  on  the  headlands, 

The  Baltic  Sea  along, 
Sits  Neckan  with  his  harp  of  gold, 

And  sings  his  plaintive  song. 

Green  rolls,  beneath  the  headlands, 

Green  rolls  the  Baltic  Sea  ; 
And  there,  below  the  Neckan's  feet, 

His  wife  and  children  be. 

He  sings  not  of  the  ocean, 

Its  shells  and  roses  pale  : 
Of  earth,  of  earth,  the  Neckan  sings, 

He  hath  no  other  tale. 

He  sits  upon  the  headlands, 

And  sings  a  mournful  stave 
Of  all  he  saw  and  felt  on  earth, 

Far  from  the  kind  sea-wave. 

Sings  how,  a  knight,  he  wandered 

By  castle,  field,  and  town  ; 
But  earthly  knights  have  harder  hearts 

Than  the  sea-children  own. 

Sings  of  his  earthly  bridal, 

Priest,  knights,  and  ladies  gay. 
"And  who  art  thou,"  the  priest  began, 

"Sir  Knight,  who  wedd'st  to-day?" 

"  I  am  no  knight,"  he  answered  ; 

"  From  the  sea-waves  I  come." 
The  knights  drew  sword,  the  ladies  screamed, 

The  surpliced  priest  stood  dumb. 


THE  NEC  KAN.  1 63 

He  sings  how  from  the  chapel 

He  vanished  with  his  bride, 
And  bore  her  down  to  the  sea-halls, 

Beneath  the  salt  sea-tide. 

He  sings  how  she  sits  weeping 

'Mid  shells  that  round  her  lie. 
"  False  Neckan  shares  my  bed,"  she  weeps  ; 

"No  Christian  mate  have  I." 

He  sings  how  through  the  billows 

He  rose  to  earth  again, 
And  sought  a  priest  to  sign  the  cross, 

That  Neckan  heaven  might  gain. 

He  sings  how,  on  an  evening, 

Beneath  the  birch-trees  cool, 
He  sate  and  played  his  harp  of  gold, 

Beside  the  river-pool. 

Beside  the  pool  sate  Neckan, 

Tears  filled  his  mild  blue  eye. 
On  his  white  mule,  across  the  bridge, 

A  cassocked  priest  rode  by. 

"  Why  sitt'st  thou  there,  O  Neckan, 

And  play'st  thy  harp  of  gold  ? 
Sooner  shall  this  my  staff  bear  leaves, 

Than  thou  shalt  heaven  behold." 

But,  lo  !  the  staff,  it  budded  ; 

It  greened,  it  branched,  it  waved. 
"  O  ruth  of  God  !  "  the  priest  cried  out, 

"This  lost  sea-creature  saved  !  " 

The  cassocked  priest  rode  onwards, 

And  vanished  with  his  mule  ; 
And  Neckan  in  the  twilight  gray 

Wept  by  the  river-pool. 


164  THE   FORSAKEN  MERMAN. 

He  wept,  "  The  earth  hath  kindness, 
The  sea,  the  starry  poles ; 

Earth,  sea,  and  sky,  and  God  above, 
But,  ah  !  not  human  souls  !  " 

In  summer,  on  the  headlands, 

The  Baltic  Sea  along, 
Sits  Neckan  with  his  harp  of  gold, 

And  sings  this  plaintive  song. 


THE  FORSAKEN  MERMAN. 

Come,  dear  children,  let  us  away ; 
Down  and  away  below  ! 
Now  my  brothers  call  from  the  bay, 
Now  the  great  winds  shoreward  blow, 
Now  the  salt  tides  seaward  flow ; 
Now  the  wild  white  horses  play, 
Champ  and  chafe  and  toss  in  the  spray. 
Children  dear,  let  us  away  ! 
This  way,  this  way  ! 

Call  her  once  before  you  go,  — 

Call  once  yet ! 

In  a  voice  that  she  will  know,  — 

"  Margaret !  Margaret !  " 

Children's  voices  should  be  dear 

(Call  once  more)  to  a  mother's  ear; 

Children's  voices,  wild  with  pain,  — 

Surely  she  will  come  again  ! 

Call  her  once,  and  come  away ; 

This  way,  this  way  ! 

"  Mother  dear,  we  cannot  stay  ! 


THE   FORSAKEN  MERMAN.  l6$ 

The  wild  white  horses  foam  and  fret." 
Margaret  !  Margaret ! 

Come,  dear  children,  come  away  down  : 

Call  no  more  ! 

One  last  look  at  the  white-walled  town, 

And  the  little  gray  church  on  the  windy  shore ; 

Then  come  down  ! 

She  will  not  come,  though  you  call  all  day ; 

Come  away,  come  away  ! 

Children  dear,  was  it  yesterday 
We  heard  the  sweet  bells  over  the  bay,  — 
In  the  caverns  where  we  lay, 
Through  the  surf  and  through  the  swell, 
The  far-off  sound  of  a  silver  bell  ? 
Sand-strewn  caverns,  cool  and  deep, 
Where  the  winds  are  all  asleep ; 
Where  the  spent  lights  quiver  and  gleam, 
Where  the  salt  weed  sways  in  the  stream, 
Where  the  sea-beasts,  ranged  all  round, 
Feed  in  the  ooze  of  their  pasture-ground  ; 
Where  the  sea-snakes  coil  and  twine, 
Dry  their  mail  and  bask  in  the  brine ; 
Where  great  whales  come  sailing  by, 
Sail  and  sail,  with  unshut  eye, 
Round  the  world  for  ever  and  aye  ? 
When  did  music  come  this  way  ? 
Children  dear,  was  it  yesterday? 

Children  dear,  was  it  yesterday 

(Call  yet  once)  that  she  went  away  ? 

Once  she  sate  with  you  and  me, 

On  a  red  gold  throne  in  the  heart  of  the  sea, 

And  the  youngest  sate  on  her  knee. 


1 66  THE  FORSAKEN  MERMAN. 

She  combed  its  bright  hair,  and  she  tended  it  well, 

When  down  swung  the  sound  of  a  far-off  bell. 

She  sighed,  she  looked  up  through  the  clear  green  sea ; 

She  said,  "  I  must  go,  for  my  kinsfolk  pray 

In  the  little  gray  church  on  the  shore  to-day. 

'Twill  be  Easter-time  in  the  world  —  ah  me  ! 

And  I  lose  my  poor  soul,  merman  !  here  with  thee." 

I  said,  "  Go  up,  dear  heart,  through  the  waves ; 

Say  thy  prayer,  and  come  back  to  the  kind  sea-caves  !  " 

She  smiled,  she  went  up  through  the  surf  in  the  bay. 

Children  dear,  was  it  yesterday? 

Children  dear,  were  we  long  alone  ? 

"  The  sea  grows  stormy,  the  little  ones  moan ; 

Long  prayers,"  I  said,  "in  the  world  they  say; 

Come  ! "  I  said ;  and  we  rose  through  the  surf  in  the 

bay. 
We  went  up  the  beach,  by  the  sandy  down 
Where  the  sea-stocks  bloom,  to  the  white-walled  town  ; 
Through  the  narrow  paved  streets,  where  all  was  still, 
To  the  little  gray  church  on  the  windy  hill. 
From   the   church  came  a  murmur  of  folk  at  their 

prayers, 
But  we  stood  without  in  the  cold  blowing  airs. 
We  climbed  on  the  graves,  on  the  stones  worn  with 

rains, 
And  we  gazed  up  the  aisle  through  the  small  leaded 

panes. 
She  sate  by  the  pillar ;  we  saw  her  clear  : 
"  Margaret,  hist !  come  quick,  we  are  here  ! 
Dear  heart,"  I  said,  "  we  are  long  alone  ; 
The  sea  grows  stormy,  the  little  ones  moan." 
But,  ah  !  she  gave  me  never  a  look, 
For  her  eyes  were  sealed  to  the  holy  book. 


THE  FORSAKEN  MERMAN.  1 67 

Loud  prays  the  priest ;  shut  stands  the  door. 
Come  away,  children,  call  no  more  ! 
Come  away,  come  down,  call  no  more  ! 

Down,  down,  down  ! 

Down  to  the  depths  of  the  sea  ! 

She  sits  at  her  wheel  in  the  humming  town, 

Singing  most  joyfully. 

Hark  what  she  sings  :  "  O  joy,  O  joy, 

For  the  humming  street,  and  the  child  with  its  toy  ! 

For  the  priest,  and  the  bell,  and  the  holy  well ; 

For  the  wheel  where  I  spun, 

And  the  blessed  light  of  the  sun  !  " 

And  so  she  sings  her  fill, 

Singing  most  joyfully, 

Till  the  spindle  drops  from  her  hand, 

And  the  whizzing  wheel  stands  still. 

She  steals  to  the  window,  and  looks  at  the  sand, 

And  over  the  sand  at  the  sea ; 

And  her  eyes  are  set  in  a  stare ; 

And  anon  there  breaks  a  sigh, 

And  anon  there  drops  a  tear, 

From  a  sorrow-clouded  eye, 

And  a  heart  sorrow-laden, 

A  long,  long  sigh, 

For  the  cold  strange  eyes  of  a  little  mermaiden, 

And  the  gleam  of  her  golden  hair. 

Come  away,  away,  children  ; 
Come,  children,  come  down  ! 
The  hoarse  wind  blows  colder ; 
Lights  shine  in  the  town. 
She  will  start  from  her  slumber 
When  gusts  shake  the  door : 


1 68  THE   FORSAKEN  MERMAN. 

She  will  hear  the  winds  howling, 
Will  hear  the  waves  roar. 
We  shall  see,  while  above  us 
The  waves  roar  and  whirl, 
A  ceiling  of  amber, 
A  pavement  of  pearl. 
Singing,  "  Here  came  a  mortal, 
But  faithless  was  she  ! 
And  alone  dwell  forever 
The  kings  of  the  sea." 

But,  children,  at  midnight, 
When  soft  the  winds  blow, 
When  clear  falls  the  moonlight, 
When  spring-tides  are  low  ; 
When  sweet  airs  come  seaward 
From  heaths  starred  with  broom, 
And  high  rocks  throw  mildly 
On  the  blanched  sands  a  gloom  ; 
Up  the  still,  glistening  beaches, 
Up  the  creeks  we  will  hie, 
Over  banks  of  bright  seaweed 
The  ebb-tide  leaves  dry. 
We  will  gaze,  from  the  sand-hills, 
At  the  white  sleeping  town  ; 
At  the  church  on  the  hill-side, 
And  then  come  back  down, 
Singing,  "  There  dwells  a  loved  one, 
But  cruel  is  she  ! 
She  left  lonely  forever 
The  kings  of  the  sea." 


SONNETS. 


AUSTERITY  OF  POETRY. 

That  son  of  Italy  who  tried  to  blow,8 
Ere  Dante  came,  the  trump  of  sacred  song, 
In  his  light  youth  amid  a  festal  throng 
Sate  with  his  bride  to  see  a  public  show. 

Fair  was  the  bride,  and  on  her  front  did  glow 
Youth  like  a  star  ;  and  what  to  youth  belong,  — 
Gay  raiment,  sparkling  gauds,  elation  strong. 
A  prop  gave  way  !  crash  fell  a  platform  !     Lo, 

Mid  struggling  sufferers,  hurt  to  death,  she  lay  ! 
Shuddering,  they  drew  her  garments  off  —  and  found 
A  robe  of  sackcloth  next  the  smooth,  white  skin. 

Such,  poets,  is  your  bride,  the  Muse  !  young,  gay, 
Radiant,  adorned  outside  ;  a  hidden  ground 
Of  thought  and  of  austerity  within. 


A   PICTURE  AT  NEWSTEAD. 

What  made  my  heart,  at  Newstead,  fullest  swell?  — 
'Twas  not  the  thought  of  Byron,  of  his  cry 
Stormily  sweet,  his  Titan-agony ; 
It  was  the  sight  of  that  Lord  Arundel 

169 


170  SONNETS. 

Who  struck,  in  heat,  his  child  he  loved  so  well, 
And  his  child's  reason  flickered,  and  did  die. 
Painted  (he  willed  it)  in  the  gallery 
They  hang ;  the  picture  doth  the  story  tell. 

Behold  the  stern,  mailed  father,  staff  in  hand  ! 
The  little  fair-haired  son,  with  vacant  gaze, 
Where  no  more  lights  of  sense  or  knowledge  are  ! 

Methinks  the  woe,  which  made  that  father  stand 
Baring  his  dumb  remorse  to  future  days, 
Was  woe  than  Byron's  woe  more  tragic  far. 


RACHEL. 


In  Paris  all  looked  hot  and  like  to  fade ; 
Sere,  in  the  garden  of  the  Tuileries, 
Sere  with  September,  drooped  the  chestnut-trees ; 
'Twas  dawn,  a  brougham  rolled  through  the   streets, 
and  made 

Halt  at  the  white  and  silent  colonnade 

Of  the  French  Theatre.     Worn  with  disease, 

Rachel,  with  eyes  no  gazing  can  appease, 

Sate  in  the  brougham,  and  those  blank  walls  surveyed. 

She  follows  the  gay  world,  whose  swarms  have  fled 
To  Switzerland,  to  Baden,  to  the  Rhine ; 
Why  stops  she  by  this  empty  playhouse  drear? 

Ah  !  where  the  spirit  its  highest  life  hath  led, 
All  spots,  matched  with  that  spot,  are  less  divine ; 
And  Rachel's  Switzerland,  her  Rhine,  is  here  ! 


SONNETS.  171 

II. 

Unto  a  lonely  villa,  in  a  dell 

Above  the  fragrant  warm  Provencal  shore, 

The  dying  Rachel  in  a  chair  they  bore 

Up  the  steep  pine-plumed  paths  of  the  Estrelle, 

And  laid  her  in  a  stately  room,  where  fell 
The  shadow  of  a  marble  Muse  of  yore,  — 
The  rose-crowned  queen  of  legendary  lore, 
Polymnia,  —  full  on  her  death-bed.     'Twas  well ! 

The  fret  and  misery  of  our  northern  towns, 
In  this  her  life's  last  day,  our  poor,  our  pain, 
Our  jangle  of  false  wits,  our  climate's  frowns, 

Do  for  this  radiant  Greek-souled  artist  cease  : 

Sole  object  of  her  dying  eyes  remain 

The  beauty  and  the  glorious  art  of  Greece. 

III. 

Sprung  from  the  blood  of  Israel's  scattered  race, 
At  a  mean  inn  in  German  Aarau  born, 
To  forms  from  antique  Greece  and  Rome  uptorn, 
Tricked  out  with  a  Parisian  speech  and  face, 

Imparting  life  renewed,  old  classic  grace ; 
Then  soothing  with  thy  Christian  strain  forlorn, 
A-Kempis  !  her  departing  soul  outworn, 
While  by  her  bedside  Hebrew  rites  have  place,  — 

Ah  !  not  the  radiant  spirit  of  Greece  alone 

She  had  —  one  power,  which  made  her  breast  its  home. 

In  her,  like  us,  there  clashed,  contending  powers, 

Germany,  France,  Christ,  Moses,  Athens,  Rome. 
The  strife,  the  mixture  in  her  soul,  are  ours ; 
Her  genius  and  her  glory  are  her  own, 


172  SONNETS. 

WORLDLY  PLACE. 

Even  in  a  palace,  life  may  be  led  well ! 
So  spake,  the  imperial  sage,  purest  of  men, 
Marcus  Aurelius.     But  the  stifling  den 
Of  common  life,  where,  crowded  up  pell-mell, 

Our  freedom  for  a  little  bread  we  sell, 
And  drudge  under  some  foolish  master's  ken 
Who  rates  us  if  we  peer  outside  our  pen,  — 
Matched  with  a  palace,  is  not  this  a  hell  ? 

Even  in  a  palace  !     On  his  truth  sincere, 
Who  spoke  these  words,  no  shadow  ever  came ; 
And  when  my  ill-schooled  spirit  is  aflame 

Some  nobler,  ampler  stage  of  life  to  win, 

I'll  stop,  and  say,  "  There  were  no  succor  here  ! 

The  aids  to  noble  life  are  all  within." 


EAST  LONDON. 

'Twas  August,  and  the  fierce  sun  overhead 
Smote  on  the  squalid  streets  of  Bethnai  Green, 
And  the  pale  weaver,  through  his  windows  seen 
In  Spitalfields,  looked  thrice  dispirited. 

I  met  a  preacher  there  I  knew,  and  said,  — 
"  111  and  o'erworked,  how  fare  you  in  this  scene?  " 
"  Bravely  !  "  said  he  ;  "  for  I  of  late  have  been 
Much  cheered  with  thoughts  of  Christ,  the  living  bread" 

O  human  soul !  as  long  as  thou  canst  so 
Set  up  a  mark  of  everlasting  light, 
Above  the  howling  senses'  ebb  and  flow, 

To  cheer  thee,  and  to  right  thee  if  thou  roam,  — 
Not  with  lost  toil  thou  laborest  through  the  night ! 
Thou  mak'st  the  heaven  thou  hop'st  indeed  thy  home. 


SONNETS.  173 

WEST  LONDON. 

Crouched  on  the  pavement,  close  by  Belgrave  Square, 

A  tramp  I  saw,  ill,  moody,  and  tongue-tied ; 

A  babe  was  in  her  arms,  and  at  her  side 

A  girl ;  their  clothes  were  rags,  their  feet  were  bare.   • 

Some  laboring-men,  whose  work  lay  somewhere  there> 
Passed  opposite ;  she  touched  her  girl,  who  hied 
Across,  and  begged,  and  came  back  satisfied. 
The  rich  she  had  let  pass  with  frozen  stare. 

Thought  I,  "  Above  her  state  this  spirit  towers ; 
She  will  not  ask  of  aliens,  but  of  friends, 
Of  sharers  in  a  common  human  fate. 

She  turns  from  that  cold  succor,  which  attends 
The  unknown  little  from  the  unknowing  great, 
And  points  us  to  a  better  time  than  ours." 


EAST  AND    WEST 

In  the  bare  midst  of  Anglesey  they  show 
Two  springs  which  close  by  one  another  play ; 
And,  "Thirteen  hundred  years  agone,"  they  say, 
"  Two  saints  met  often  where  those  waters  flow. 

One  came  from  Penmon  westward,  and  a  glow 
Whitened  his  face  from  the  sun's  fronting  ray ; 
Eastward  the  other,  from  the  dying  day, 
And  he  with  unsunned  face  did  always  go." 

Seiriol  the  Bright,  Kybi  the  Dark  /  men  said. 
The  seer  from  the  East  was  then  in  light, 
The  seer  from  the  West  was  then  in  shade. 


174  SONNETS. 

Ah  !  now  'tis  changed.    In  conquering  sunshine  bright 
The  man  of  the  bold  West  now  comes  arrayed  : 
He  of  the  mystic  East  is  touched  with  night. 


THE  BETTER  PART. 

Long  fed  on  boundless  hopes,  O  race  of  man, 
How  angrily  thou  spurn'st  all  simpler  fare  ! 
"  Christ,"  some  one  says,  "  was  human  as  we  are ; 
No  judge  eyes  us  from  heaven,  our  sin  to  scan ; 

We  live  no  more,  when  we  have  done  our  span." 
"Well,  then,  for  Christ,"  thou  answerest,  "who  can  care? 
From  sin  which  Heaven  records  not,  why  forbear? 
Live  we  like  brutes  our  life  without  a  plan  !  " 

So  answerest  thou  ;  but  why  not  rather  say,  — 
"  Hath  man  no  second  life  ?     Pitch  this  one  high  / 
Sits  there  no  judge  in  heaven,  our  sin  to  see  ? 

More  strictly,  then,  the  inward  judge  obey  ! 
Was  Christ  a  man  like  us  ?  Ah  !  let  us  try 
If  we  then,  too,  can  be  such  men  as  he  !  " 


THE  DIVINITY. 

"  Yes,  write  it  in  the  rock,"  Saint  Bernard  said, 
"  Grave  it  on  brass  with  adamantine  pen  ! 
Tis  God  himself  becomes  apparent,  when 
God's  wisdom  and  God's  goodness  are  displayed ; 

For  God  of  these  his  attributes  is  made."  — 
Well  spake  the  impetuous  saint,  and  bore  of  men 
The  suffrage  captive  :  now  not  one  in  ten 
Recalls  the  obscure  opposer  he  outweighed.9 


SONNETS.  175 

God's  wisdom  and  God's  goodness  !     Ay,  but  fools 
Mis-define  these  till  God  knows  them  no  more. 
Wisdom  and  goodness,  they  are  God  !  —  what  schools 

Have  yet  so  much  as  heard  this  simpler  lore  ? 
This  no  saint  preaches,  and  this  no  Church  rules ; 
Tis  in  the  desert,  now  and  heretofore. 


IMMORTALITY. 

Foiled  by  our  fellow-men,  depressed,  outworn, 
We  leave  the  brutal  world  to  take  its  way, 
And,  Patience  !  in  another  life,  we  say, 
The  world  shall  be  thrust  down,  and  we  upborne. 

And  will  not,  then,  the  immortal  armies  scorn 
The  world's  poor,  routed  leavings  ?  or  will  they 
Who  failed  under  the  heat  of  this  life's  day 
Support  the  fervors  of  the  heavenly  morn? 

No,  no  !  the  energy  of  life  may  be 
Kept  on  after  the  grave,  but  not  begun ; 
And  he  who  flagged  not  in  the  earthly  strife, 

From  strength  to  strength  advancing,  —  only  he. 
His  soul  well-knit,  and  all  his  battles  won, 
Mounts,  and  that  hardly,  to  eternal  life. 


THE   GOOD  SHEPHERD    WITH  THE  KID. 

He  saves  the  sheep,  the  goats  he  doth  not  save. 
So  rang  Tertullian's  sentence,  on  the  side 
Of  that  unpitying  Phrygian  sect  which  cried, IO 
"  Him  can  no  fount  of  fresh  forgiveness  lave, 


176  SONNETS. 

Who  sins,  once  washed  by  the  baptismal  wave." 
So  spake  the  fierce  Tertullian.     But  she  sighed, 
The  infant  Church  !  of  love  she  felt  the  tide 
Stream  on  her  from  her  Lord's  yet  recent  grave. 

And  then  she  smiled ;  and  in  the  Catacombs, 
With  eye  suffused  but  heart  inspired  true, 
On  those  walls  subterranean,  where  she  hid 

Her  head  'mid  ignominy,  death,  and  tombs, 
She  her  Good  Shepherd's  hasty  image  drew  — 
And  on  his  shoulders,  not  a  lamb,  a  kid. 


MONICA'S  LAST  PRAYER." 

"  Ah  !  could  thy  grave  at  home,  at  Carthage,  be  ! " 
Care  not  for  that,  and  lay  me  where  1 fall 7 
Everywhere  heard  will  be  the  judgment-call ; 
But  at  God's  altar,  oh  I  remember  me. 

Thus  Monica,  and  died  in  Italy. 
Yet  fervent  had  her  longing  been,  through  all 
Her  course,  for  home  at  last,  and  burial 
With  her  own  husband,  by  the  Libyan  sea. 

Had  been  !  but  at  the  end,  to  her  pure  soul 
All  tie  with  all  beside  seemed  vain  and  cheap, 
And  union  before  God  the  only  care. 

Creeds  pass,  rites  change,  no  altar  standeth  whole. 
Yet  we  her  memory,  as  she  prayed,  will  keep, 
Keep  by  this  :  Life  in  God,  and  union  there  ! 


LYRIC    AND    DRAMATIC 
POEMS. 


SWITZERLAND. 
I.     MEETING. 

Again  I  see  my  bliss  at  hand, 
The  town,  the  lake,  are  here  ; 

My  Marguerite  smiles  upon  the  strand,12 
Unaltered  with  the  year. 

I  know  that  graceful  figure  fair, 
That  cheek  of  languid  hue  ; 

I  know  that  soft,  enkerchiefed  hair, 
And  those  sweet  eyes  of  blue. 

Again  I  spring  to  make  my  choice ; 

Again  in  tones  of  ire 
I  hear  a  God's  tremendous  voice,  — 

"  Be  counselled,  and  retire." 

¥e  guiding  Powers  who  join  and  part, 
What  would  ye  have  with  me  ? 

Ah,  warn  some  more  ambitious  heart, 
And  let  the  peaceful  be  ! 

177 


I  yS  SWITZERLAND. 

II.     PARTING. 

Ye  storm-winds  of  autumn  ! 

Who  rush  by,  who  shake 

The  window,  and  ruffle 

The  gleam-lighted  lake ; 

Who  cross  to  the  hillside 

Thin-sprinkled  with  farms, 

Where  the  high  woods  strip  sadly 

Their  yellowing  arms,  — 

Ye  are  bound  for  the  mountains  ! 

Ah  !  with  you  let  me  go 

Where  your  cold,  distant  barrier, 

The  vast  range  of  snow, 

Through  the  loose  clouds  lifts  dimly 

Its  white  peaks  in  air. 

How  deep  is  their  stillness  ! 

Ah  !  would  I  were  there  ! 

But  on  the  stairs  what  voice  is  this  I  hear, 
Buoyant  as  morning,  and  as  morning  clear? 
Say,  has  some  wet  bird-haunted  English  lawn 
Lent  it  the  music  of  its  trees  at  dawn? 
Or  was  it  from  some  sun-flecked  mountain  brook 
That  the  sweet  voice  its  upland  clearness  took? 

Ah  !  it  comes  nearer  — 

Sweet  notes,  this  way  ! 

Hark  !  fast  by  the  window 
The  rushing  winds  go, 
To  the  ice-cumbered  gorges, 
The  vast  seas  of  snow  ! 
There  the  torrents  drive  upward 
Their  rock-strangled  hum ; 


SWITZERLAND.  1 79 

There  the  avalanche  thunders 
The  hoarse  torrent  dumb. 

—  I  come,  O  ye  mountains  ! 
Ye  torrents,  I  come  ! 

But  who  is  this,  by  the  half-opened  door, 
Whose  figure  casts  a  shadow  on  the  floor  ? 
The  sweet  blue  eyes  —  the  soft,  ash-colored  hair  — 
The  cheeks  that  still  their  gentle  paleness  wear  — 
The  lovely  lips,  with  their  arched  smile  that  tells 
The  unconquered  joy  in  which  her  spirit  dwells  — 

Ah  !  they  bend  nearer  — 

Sweet  lips,  this  way  ! 

Hark  !  the  wind  rushes  past  us  ! 

Ah  !  with  that  let  me  go 

To  the  clear,  waning  hill-side, 

Unspotted  by  snow, 

There  to  watch,  o'er  the  sunk  vale, 

The  frore  mountain  wall, 

Where  the  niched  snow-bed  sprays  down 

Its  powdery  fall. 

There  its  dusky  blue  clusters 

The  aconite  spreads ; 

There  the  pines  slope,  the  cloud-strips 

Hung  soft  in  their  heads. 

No  life  but,  at  moments, 

The  mountain  bee's  hum. 

—  I  come,  O  ye  mountains  ! 
Ye  pine-woods,  I  come  ! 

Forgive  me  !  forgive  me  ! 

Ah,  Marguerite,  fain 
Would  these  arms  reach  to  clasp  thee  ! 

But  see  !  'tis  in  vain. 


I  So  SWITZERLAND. 

In  the  void  air,  towards  thee, 
My  stretched  arms  are  cast ; 

But  a  sea  rolls  between  us,  — 
Our  different  past ! 

To  the  lips,  ah  !  of  others 
Those  lips  have  been  prest, 

And  others,  ere  I  was, 

Were  strained  to  that  breast. 

Far,  far  from  each  other 
Our  spirits  have  grown. 

And  what  heart  knows  another? 
Ah  !  who  knows  his  own  ? 

Blow,  ye  winds  !  lift  me  with  you  I 

I  come  to  the  wild. 
Fold  closely,  O  Nature  ! 

Thine  arms  round  thy  child. 

To  thee  only  God  granted 

A  heart  ever  new,  — 
To  all  always  open, 

To  all  always  true. 

Ah  !  calm  me,  restore  me  ; 

And  dry  up  my  tears 
On  thy  high  mountain  platforms, 

Where  morn  first  appears ; 

Where  the  white  mists,  forever, 
Are  spread  and  upfurled,  — 

In  the  stir  of  the  forces 
Whence  issued  the  world. 


S  WITZERLAND.  \  8 1 


III.     A    FAREWELL. 


My  horse's  feet  beside  the  lake, 

Where  sweet  the  unbroken  moonbeams  lay, 

Sent  echoes  through  the  night  to  wake 

Each  glistening  strand,  each  heath-fringed  bay. 

The  poplar  avenue  was  passed, 

And  the  roofed  bridge  that  spans  the  stream ; 

Up  the  steep  street  I  hurried  fast, 

Led  by  thy  taper's  starlike  beam. 

I  came  !  I  saw  thee  rise  !  the  blood 
Poured  flushing  to  thy  languid  cheek. 
Locked  in  each  other's  arms  we  stood, 
In  tears,  with  hearts  too  full  to  speak. 

Days  flew ;  ah,  soon  I  could  discern 

A  trouble  in  thine  altered  air  ! 

Thy  hand  lay  languidly  in  mine, 

Thy  cheek  was  grave,  thy  speech  grew  rare. 

I  blame  thee  not !     This  heart,  I  know, 
To  be  long  loved  was  never  framed ; 
For  something  in  its  depths  doth  glow 
Too  strange,  too  restless,  too  untamed. 

And  women,  —  things  that  live  and  move 
Mined  by  the  fever  of  the  soul,  — 
They  seek  to  find  in  those  they  love 
Stern  strength,  and  promise  of  control. 

They  ask  not  kindness,  gentle  ways ; 

These  they  themselves  have  tried  and  known  : 

They  ask  a  soul  which  never  sways 

With  the  blind  gusts  that  shake  their  own. 


1 82  SWITZERLAND. 

I  too  have  felt  the  load  I  bore 
In  a  too  strong  emotion's  sway ; 
I  too  have  wished,  no  woman  more, 
This  starting,  feverish  heart  away. 

I  too  have  longed  for  trenchant  force, 
And  will  like  a  dividing  spear ; 
Have  praised  the  keen,  unscrupulous  course, 
Which  knows  no  doubt,  which  feels  no  fear. 

But  in  the  world  I  learnt,  what  there 
Thou  too  wilt  surely  one  day  prove,  — 
That  will,  that  energy,  though  rare, 
Are  yet  far,  far  less  rare  than  love. 

Go,  then  !  till  time  and  fate  impress 
This  truth  on  thee,  be  mine  no  more  ! 
They  will !  for  thou,  I  feel,  not  less 
Than  I,  wast  destined  to  this  lore. 

We  school  our  manners,  act  our  parts ; 
But  He,  who  sees  us  through  and  through, 
Knows  that  the  bent  of  both  our  hearts 
Was  to  be  gentle,  tranquil,  true. 

And  though  we  wear  out  life,  alas  ! 
Distracted  as  a  homeless  wind, 
In  beating  where  we  must  not  pass, 
In  seeking  what  we  shall  not  find  ; 

Yet  we  shall  one  day  gain,  life  past, 
Clear  prospect  o'er  our  being's  whole ; 
Shall  see  ourselves,  and  learn  at  last 
Our  true  affinities  of  soul. 


SWITZERLAND.  1 83 

We  shall  not  then  deny  a  course 
To  every  thought  the  mass  ignore ; 
We  shall  not  then  call  hardness  force, 
Nor  lightness  wisdom  any  more. 

Then,  in  the  eternal  Father's  smile, 
Our  soothed,  encouraged  souls  will  dare 
To  seem  as  free  from  pride  and  guile, 
As  good,  as  generous,  as  they  are. 

Then  we  shall  know  our  friends  !     Though  much 
Will  have  been  lost, — the  help  in  strife, 
The  thousand  sweet,  still  joys  of  such 
As  hand  in  hand  face  earthly  life,  — 

Though  these  be  lost,  there  will  be  yet 
A  sympathy  august  and  pure  ; 
Ennobled  by  a  vast  regret, 
And  by  contrition  sealed  thrice  sure. 

And  we,  whose  ways  were  unlike  here, 
May  then  more  neighboring  courses  ply  ; 
May  to  each  other  be  brought  near, 
And  greet  across  infinity. 

How  sweet,  unreached  by  earthly  jars, 
My  sister  !  to  maintain  with  thee 
The  hush  among  the  shining  stars, 
The  calm  upon  the  moonlit  sea  ! 

How  sweet  to  feel,  on  the  boon  air, 
All  our  unquiet  pulses  cease  ! 
To  feel  that  nothing  can  impair 
The  gentleness,  the  thirst  for  peace,  — 


1 84  SWITZERLAND. 

The  gentleness  too  rudely  hurled 
On  this  wild  earth  of  hate  and  fear ; 
The  thirst  for  peace,  a  raving  world 
Would  never  let  us  satiate  here. 


IV.     ISOLATION.     TO   MARGUERITE. 

We  were  apart :  yet,  day  by  day, 

I  bade  my  heart  more  constant  be. 

I  bade  it  keep  the  world  away, 

And  grow  a  home  for  only  thee ; 

Nor  feared  but  thy  love  likewise  grew, 

Like  mine,  each  day,  more  tried,  more  true. 

The  fault  was  grave  !  I  might  have  known, 
What  far  too  soon,  alas  !  I  learned,  — 
The  heart  can  bind  itself  alone, 
And  faith  may  oft  be  unreturned. 
Self-swayed  our  feelings  ebb  and  swell. 
Thou  lov'st  no  more.     Farewell !  Farewell ! 

Farewell !  —  And  thou,  thou  lonely  heart, 

Which  never  yet  without  remorse 

Even  for  a  moment  didst  depart 

From  thy  remote  and  sphered  course 

To  haunt  the  place  where  passions  reign,  — 

Back  to  thy  solitude  again  ! 

Back  !  with  the  conscious  thrill  of  shame 
Which  Luna  felt,  that  summer-night, 
Flash  through  her  pure  immortal  frame, 
When  she  forsook  the  starry  height 
To  hang  o'er  Endymion's  sleep 
Upon  the  pine-grown  Latmian  steep. 


S  WITZERLAND.  j  g  5 

Yet  she,  chaste  queen,  had  never  proved 
How  vain  a  thing  is  mortal  love, 
Wandering  in  heaven,  far  removed  ; 
But  thou  hast  long  had  place  to  prove 
This  truth,  —  to  prove,  and  make  thine  own  : 
"  Thou  hast  been,  shalt  be,  art,  alone.  " 

Or,  if  not  quite  alone,  yet  they 
Which  touch  thee  are  unmating  things,  — 
Ocean  and  clouds  and  night  and  day ; 
Lorn  autumns  and  triumphant  springs; 
And  life,  and  others'  joy  and  pain, 
And  love,  if  love,  of  happier  men. 

Of  happier  men  ;  for  they,  at  least, 

Have  drea??ied  two  human  hearts  might  blend 

In  one,  and  were  through  faith  released 

From  isolation  without  end 

Prolonged ;  nor  knew,  although  not  less 

Alone  than  thou,  their  loneliness. 

V.     TO  MARGUERITE.     CONTINUED. 

Yes  !  in  the  sea  of  life  enisled, 

With  echoing  straits  between  us  thrown, 

Dotting  the  shoreless  watery  wild, 

We  mortal  millions  live  alone. 

The  islands  feel  the  enclasping  flow, 

And  then  their  endless  bounds  they  know. 

But  when  the  moon  their  hollows  lights, 
And  they  are  swept  by  balms  of  spring, 
And  in  their  glens,  on  starry  nights, 
The  nightingales  divinely  sing ; 
And  lovely  notes,  from  shore  to  shore, 
Across  the  sounds  and  channels  pour,  — - 


1 86  S  WITZERLAND. 

Oh  !  then  a  longing  like  despair 

Is  to  their  farthest  caverns  sent ; 

For  surely  once,  they  feel,  we  were 

Parts  of  a  single  continent ! 

Now  round  us  spreads  the  watery  plain  : 

Oh,  might  our  marges  meet  again  ! 

Who  ordered  that  their  longing's  fire 
Should  be,  as  soon  as  kindled,  cooled? 
Who  renders  vain  their  deep  desire  ?  — 
A  God,  a  God  their  severance  ruled  ! 
And  bade  betwixt  their  shores  to  be 
The  unplumbed,  salt,  estranging  sea. 

VI.    ABSENCE. 

In  this  fair  stranger's  eyes  of  gray, 
Thine  eyes,  my  love  !  I  see. 

I  shiver  ;  for  the  passing  day 
Had  borne  me  far  from  thee. 

This  is  the  curse  of  life  !  that  not 

A  nobler,  calmer  train 
Of  wiser  thoughts  and  feelings  blot 

Our  passions  from  our  brain  ; 

But  each  day  brings  its  petty  dust, 
Our  soon-choked  souls  to  fill ; 

And  we  forget  because  we  must, 
And  not  because  we  will. 

I  struggle  towards  the  light ;  and  ye, 
Once-longed-for  storms  of  love  ! 

If  with  the  light  ye  cannot  be, 
I  bear  that  ye  remove. 


SWITZERLAND.  1 8? 

I  struggle  towards  the  light ;  but  oh, 

While  yet  the  night  is  chill, 
Upon  time's  barren,  stormy  flow, 

Stay  with  me,  Marguerite,  still ! 

VII.    THE   TERRACE   AT   BERNE. 

(composed  ten  years  after  the  preceding.) 

Ten  years  !  and  to  my  waking  eye 
Once  more  the  roofs  of  Berne  appear ; 
The  rocky  banks,  the  terrace  high, 
The  stream  !  and  do  I  linger  here  ? 

The  clouds  are  on  the  Oberland, 
The  Jungfrau  snows  look  faint  and  far; 
But  bright  are  those  green  fields  at  hand, 
And  through  those  fields  comes  down  the  Aar, 

And  from  the  blue  twin-lakes  it  comes, 
Flows  by  the  town,  the  churchyard  fair; 
And  'neath  the  garden-walk  it  hums, 
The  house  !  and  is  my  Marguerite  there 

Ah  !  shall  I  see  thee,  while  a  flush 
Of  startled  pleasure  floods  thy  brow, 
Quick  through  the  oleanders  brush, 
And  clap  thy  hands,  and  cry,  'Tis  thou/ 

Or  hast  thou  long  since  wandered  back, 
Daughter  of  France  !  to  France,  thy  home 
And  flitted  clown  the  flowery  track 
Where  feet  like  thine  too  lightly  come  ? 

Doth  riotous  laughter  now  replace 
Thy  smile,  and  rouge,  with  stony  glare, 
Thy  cheek's  soft  hue,  and  fluttering  lace 
The  kerchief  that  in  wound  thy  hair? 


i88 


SIVITZEKLAxVD. 


Or  is  it  over?  art  thou  dead?  — 
Dead  !  —  and  no  warning  shiver  ran 
Across  my  heart,  to  say  thy  thread 
Of  life  was  cut,  and  closed  thy  span  ! 

Could  from  earth's  ways  that  figure  slight 
Be  lost,  and  I  not  feel  'twas  so  ? 
Of  that  fresh  voice  the  gay  delight 
Fail  from  earth's  air,  and  I  not  know  ? 

Or  shall  I  find  thee  still,  but  changed, 
But  not  the  Marguerite  of  thy  prime  ? 
With  all  thy  being  re-arranged,  — 
Passed  through  the  crucible  of  time  j 

With  spirit  vanished,  beauty  waned, 
And  hardly  yet  a  glance,  a  tone, 
A  gesture  — any  thing  —  retained 
Of  all  that  was  my  Marguerite's  own  ? 

I  will  not  know  !     For  wherefore  try, 
To  things  by  mortal  course  that  live, 
A  shadowy  durability, 
For  which  they  were  not  meant,  to  give  ? 

Like  driftwood  spars,  which  meet  and  pass 

Upon  the  boundless  ocean-plain, 

So  on  the  sea  of  life,  alas  ! 

Man  meets  man,  —  meets,  and  quits  again. 

I  knew  it  when  my  life  was  young ; 
I  feel  it  still  now  youth  is  o'er. 
—  The  mists  are  on  the  mountain  hunsr, 
And  Marguerite  I  shall  see  no  more. 


THE  STRAYED  REVELLER.  189 


THE  STRAYED  REVELLER. 

THE  PORTICO  OF  CIRCE'S  PALACE.    EVENING. 

A  Youth.    Circe. 

THE   YOUTH. 

Faster,  faster, 

0  Circe,  goddess, 

Let  the  wild,  thronging  train, 
The  bright  procession 
Of  eddying  forms, 
Sweep  through  my  soul ! 

Thou  standest,  smiling 

Down  on  me  !  thy  right  arm, 

Leaned  up  against  the  column  there, 

Props  thy  soft  cheek ; 

Thy  left  holds,  hanging  loosely, 

The  deep  cup,  ivy-cinctured, 

1  held  but  now. 

Is  it  then  evening 

So  soon  ?     I  see,  the  night-dews, 

Clustered  in  thick  beads,  dim 

The  agate  brooch-stones 

On  thy  white  shoulder  ; 

The  cool  night-wind,  too, 

Blows  through  the  portico, 

Stirs  thy  hair,  goddess, 

Waves  thy  white  robe  ! 


I90  THE  STRAYED   REVELLER. 

CIRCE. 
Whence  art  thou,  sleeper? 

THE   YOUTH. 

When  the  white  dawn  first 

Through  the  rough  fir-planks 

Of  my  hut,  by  the  chestnuts, 

Up  at  the  valley-head, 

Came  breaking,  goddess  ! 

I  sprang  up,  I  threw  round  me 

My  dappled  fawn- skin  : 

Passing  out,  from  the  wet  turf, 

Where  they  lay,  by  the  hut  door, 

I  snatched  up  my  vine-crown,  my  fir-staff, 

All  drenched  in  dew,  — 

Came  swift  down  to  join 

The  rout  early  gathered 

In  the  town,  round  the  temple, 

Iacchus'  white  fane 

On  yonder  hill. 

Quick  I  passed,  following 
The  woodcutters'  cart-track 
Down  the  dark  valley.     I  saw 
On  my  left,  through  the  beeches, 
Thy  palace,  goddess, 
Smokeless,  empty  ! 
Trembling,  I  entered  -,  beheld 
The  court  all  silent, 
The  lions  sleeping, 
On  the  altar  this  bowl. 
I  drank,  goddess  ! 
And  sank  down  here,  sleeping, 
On  the  steps  of  thy  portico. 


THE  STRAYED  REVELLER.  I91 

CIRCE. 

Foolish  boy  !     Why  tremblest  thou  ? 

Thou  lovest  it,  then,  my  wine  ? 

Wouldst  more  of  it?    See  how  glows, 

Through  the  delicate,  flushed  marble, 

The  red  creaming  liquor, 

Strewn  with  dark  seeds  ! 

Drink,  then  !  I  chide  thee  not, 

Deny  thee  not  my  bowl. 

Come,  stretch  forth  thy  hand,  then  —  so  ! 

Drink  —  drink  again  ! 

THE   YOUTH. 

Thanks,  gracious  one  ! 
Ah,  the  sweet  fumes  again  ! 
More  soft,  ah  me  ! 
More  subtle-winding, 
Than  Pan's  flute-music  ! 
Faint  —  faint !     Ah  me, 
Again  the  sweet  sleep  ! 

CIRCE. 

Hist !     Thou  —  within  there  ! 
Come  forth,  Ulysses  ! 
Art  tired  with  hunting? 
While  we  range  the  woodland, 
See  what  the  day  brings. 

ULYSSES. 

Ever  new  magic  ! 
Hast  thou  then  lured  hither, 
Wonderful  goddess,  by  thy  art, 
The  young,  languid-eyed  Ampelus, 


192  THE  STRAYED  REVELLER. 

Iacchus'  darling, 

Or  some  youth  beloved  of  Pan, 

Of  Pan  and  the  nymphs  ; 

That  he  sits,  bending  downward 

His  white,  delicate  neck 

To  the  ivy-wreathed  marge 

Of  thy  cup  ;  the  bright,  glancing  vine-leaves 

That  crown  his  hair, 

Falling  forward,  mingling 

With  the  dark  ivy-plants  ; 

His  fawn-skin,  half  untied, 

Smeared  with  red  wine-stains?    Who  is  he, 

That  he  sits,  overweighed 

By  fumes  of  wine  and  sleep, 

So  late,  in  thy  portico  ? 

What  youth,  goddess,  —  what  guest 

Of  gods  or  mortals? 

CIRCE. 

Hist !  he  wakes  ! 

I  lured  him  not  hither,  Ulysses. 

Nay,  ask  him  ! 

THE   YOUTH. 

Who  speaks  ?     Ah  !  who  comes  forth 

To  thy  side,  goddess,  from  within? 

How  shall  I  name  him, — 

This  spare,  dark-featured, 

Quick-eyed  stranger? 

Ah  !  and  I  see  too 

His  sailor's  bonnet, 

His  short  coat,  travel-tarnished, 

With  one  arm  bare  !  — • 

Art  thou  not  he,  whom  fame 


THE  STRAYED  REVELLER.  1 93 

This  long  time  rumors 

The  favored  guest  of  Circe,  brought  by  the  waves? 

Art  thou  he,  stranger,  — 

The  wise  Ulysses, 

Laertes'  son? 

ULYSSES. 

I  am  Ulysses. 

And  thou  too,  sleeper? 

Thy  voice  is  sweet. 

It  may  be  thou  hast  followed 

Through  the  islands  some  divine  bard, 

By  age  taught  many  things,  — 

Age,  and  the  Muses ; 

And  heard  him  delighting 

The  chiefs  and  people 

In  the  banquet,  and  learned  his  songs, 

Of  gods  and  heroes, 

Of  war  and  arts, 

And  peopled  cities, 

Inland,  or  built 

By  the  gray  sea.     If  so,  then  hail  1 

I  honor  and  welcome  thee. 

THE  YOUTH. 

The  gods  are  happy. 
They  turn  on  all  sides 
Their  shining  eyes, 
And  see  below  them 
The  earth  and  men. 

They  see  Tiresias 
Sitting,  staff  in  hand, 
On  the  warm,  grassy 
Asopus  bank, 


194  THE  STRAYED  REVELLER. 

His  robe  drawn  over 
His  old  sightless  head, 
Revolving  inly 
The  doom  of  Thebes. 

They  see  the  centaurs 
In  the  upper  glens 
Of  Pelion,  in  the  streams 
Where  red-berried  ashes  fringe 
The  clear-brown  shallow  pools, 
With  streaming  flanks,  and  heads 
Reared  proudly,  snuffing 
The  mountain  wind. 

They  see  the  Indian 

Drifting,  knife  in  hand, 

His  frail  boat  moored  to 

A  floating  isle  thick-matted 

With  large-leaved,  low-creeping  melon-plants, 

And  the  dark  cucumber. 

He  reaps  and  stows  them, 

Drifting  —  drifting ;  round  him, 

Round  his  green  harvest-plot, 

Flow  the  cool  lake-waves, 

The  mountains  ring  them. 


*& 


They  see  the  Scythian 

On  the  wide  steppe,  unharnessing 

His  wheeled  house  at  noon. 

He  tethers  his  beast  down,  and  makes  his  meal,  — 

Mares'  milk,  and  bread 

Baked  on  the  embers.     All  around, 

The  boundless,  waving  grass-plains  stretch,  thick-starred 

With  saffron  and  the  yellow  hollyhock 

And  flag-leaved  iris-flowers. 


THE  STRAYED  REVELLER.  1 95 

Sitting  in  his  cart 

He  makes  his  meal ;  before  him,  for  long  miles, 

Alive  with  bright  green  lizards, 

And  the  springing  bustard-fowl, 

The  track,  a  straight  black  line, 

Furrows  the  rich  soil ;  here  and  there 

Clusters  of  lonely  mounds 

Topped  with  rough-hewn, 

Gray,  rain-bleared  statues,  overpeer 

The  sunny  waste. 

They  see  the  ferry 

On  the  broad,  clay-laden 

Lone  Chorasmian  stream  ;  thereon, 

With  snort  and  strain, 

Two  horses,  strongly  swimming,  tow 

The  ferry-boat,  with  woven  ropes 

To  either  bow 

Firm-harnessed  by  the  mane  ;  a  chief, 

With  shout  and  shaken  spear, 

Stands  at  the  prow,  and  guides  them ;  but  astern 

The  cowering  merchants  in  long  robes 

Sit  pale  beside  their  wealth 

Of  silk-bales  and  of  balsam-drops, 

Of  gold  and  ivory, 

Of  turquoise-earth,  and  amethyst, 

Jasper  and  chalcedony, 

And  milk-barred  onyx-stones. 

The  loaded  boat  swings  groaning 

In  the  yellow  eddies  ; 

The  gods  behold  them. 

They  see  the  heroes 
Sitting  in  the  dark  ship 


196  THE  STRAYED  REVELLER. 

On  the  foamless,  long-heaving, 

Violet  sea, 

At  sunset  nearing 

The  Happy  Islands. 

These  things,  Ulysses, 
The  wise  bards  also 
Behold,  and  sing. 
But  oh,  what  labor  ! 
O  prince,  what  pain  ! 

They  too  can  see 
Tiresias  ;  but  the  gods, 
Who  gave  them  vision, 
Added  this  law : 
That  they  should  bear  too 
His  groping  blindness, 
His  dark  foreboding, 
His  scorned  white  hairs  ; 
Bear  Hera's  anger 
Through  a  life  lengthened 
To  seven  ages. 

They  see  the  centaurs 

On  Pelion  :  then  they  feel, 

They  too,  the  maddening  wine 

Swell  their  large  veins  to  bursting ;  in  wild  pain 

They  feel  the  biting  spears 

Of  the  grim  Lapithre,  and  Theseus,  drive, 

Drive  crashing  through  their  bones ;  they  feel, 

High  on  a  jutting  rock  in  the  red  stream, 

Alcmena's  dreadful  son 

Ply  his  bow.     Such  a  price 

The  gods  exact  for  song  : 

To  become  what  we  sing. 


THE   STRAYED   REVELLER.  1 97 

They  see  the  Indian         • 

On  his  mountain  lake  ;  but  squalls 

Make  their  skiff  reel,  and  worms 

In  the  unkind  spring  have  gnawn 

Their  melon-harvest  to  the  heart.     They  see 

The  Scythian  ;  but  long  frosts  ■ 

Parch  them  in  winter-time  on  the  bare  steppe, 

Till  they  too  fade  like  grass ;  they  crawl 

Like  shadows  forth  in  spring. 

They  see  the  merchants 

On  the  Oxus-stream  ;  but  care 

Must  visit  first  them  too,  and  make  them  pale  : 

Whether,  through  whirling  sand, 

A  cloud  of  desert  robber-horse  have  burst 

Upon  their  caravan  ;  or  greedy  kings, 

In  the  walled  cities  the  way  passes  through, 

Crushed  them  with  tolls  ;  or  fever-airs, 

On  some  great  river's  marge, 

Mown  them  down,  far  from  home. 

They  see  the  heroes 

Near  harbor  ;  but  they  share 

Their  lives,  and  former  violent  toil  in  Thebes,  — 

Seven-gated  Thebes,  or  Troy  ; 

Or  where  the  echoing  oars 

Of  Argo  first 

Startled  the  unknown  sea. 

The  old  Silenus 

Came,  lolling  in  the  sunshine, 

From  the  dewy  forest-coverts, 

This  way,  at  noon. 

Sitting  by  me,  while  his  fauns 


198  THE  STRAYED  REVELLER. 

Down  at  the  water-side 
Sprinkled  and  smoothed 
His  drooping  garland, 
He  told  me  these  things. 

But  I,  Ulysses, 
Sitting  on  the  warm  steps, 
Looking  over  the  valley, 
All  day  long,  have  seen, 
Without  pain,  without  labor, 
Sometimes  a  wild-haired  msenad, 
Sometimes  a  faun  with  torches, 
And  sometimes,  for  a  moment, 
Passing  through  the  dark  stems 
Flowing-robed,  the  beloved, 
The  desired,  the  divine, 
Beloved  Iacchus. 

Ah,  cool  night-wind,  tremulous  stars  ! 

Ah,  glimmering  water, 

Fitful  earth-murmur, 

Dreaming  woods  ! 

Ah,  golden-haired,  strangely  smiling  goddess. 

And  thou,  proved,  much-enduring, 

Wave-tossed  wanderer  ! 

Who  can  stand  still? 

Ye  fade,  ye  swim,  ye  waver  before  me  — 

The  cup  again  ! 

Faster,  faster, 

O  Circe,  goddess, 

Let  the  wild,  thronging  train, 

The  bright  procession 

Of  eddying  forms, 

Sweep  through  my  soul ! 


FRAGMENT  OF  AN  "ANTIGONE."         1 99 


FRAGMENT  OF  AN  "ANTIGONE." 

THE   CHORUS. 

Well  hath  he  done  who  hath  seized  happiness  ! 
For  little  do  the  all-containing  hours, 

Though  opulent,  freely  give,  — 

Who,  weighing  that  life  well 

Fortune  presents  unprayed, 
Declines  her  ministry,  and  carves  his  own ; 

And,  justice  not  infringed, 
Makes  his  own  welfare  his  unswerved-from  law. 

He  does  well  too,  who  keeps  that  clew  the  mild 
Birth-goddess  and  the  austere  Fates  first  gave. 

For,  from  the  day  when  these 

Bring  him,  a  weeping  child, 

First  to  the  light,  and  mark 
A  country  for  him,  kinsfolk,  and  a  home, 

Unguided  he  remains, 
Till  the  Fates  come  again,  this  time  with  death. 

In  little  companies, 

And,  our  own  place  once  left, 
Ignorant  where  to  stand,  or  whom  to  avoid, 
By  city  and  household  grouped,  we  live  ;  and  many 
shocks 

Our  order  heaven-ordained 

Must  every  day  endure,  — 
Voyages,  exiles,  hates,  dissensions,  wars. 

Besides  what  waste  he  makes, 

The  all-hated,  order-breaking, 


200         FRAGMENT  OF  AN  "ANTIGONE." 

Without  friend,  city,  or  home,  — 
Death,  who  dissevers  all. 

Him  then  I  praise,  who  dares 

To  self-selected  good 
Prefer  obedience  to  the  primal  law 
Which   consecrates    the    ties    of    blood;    for   these, 
indeed, 

Are  to  the  gods  a  care  : 

That  touches  but  himself. 
For  every  day  man  may  be  linked  and  loosed 

With  strangers  ;  but  the  bond 

Original,  deep-inwound, 

Of  blood,  can  he  not  bind, 

Nor,  if  fate  binds,  not  bear. 

But  hush  !  Hremon,  whom  Antigone, 
Robbing  herself  of  life  in  burying, 
Against  Creon's  law,  Polynices, 
Robs  of  a  loved  bride,  —  pale,  imploring, 

Waiting  her  passage, 
Forth  from  the  palace  hitherward  comes. 


ILEMON. 

No,  no,  old  men,  Creon  I  curse  not ! 
I  weep,  Thebans, 
One  than  Creon  crueller  far  ! 
For  he,  he,  at  least,  by  slaying  her, 
August  laws  doth  mightily  vindicate  ; 
But  thou,  too  bold,  headstrong,  pitiless 
Ah  me  !  —  honorest  more  than  thy  lover, 

O  Antigone  ! 
A  dead,  ignorant,  thankless  corpse. 


FRAGMENT  OF  AN  "ANTIGONE."  201 

THE   CHORUS. 

Nor  was  the  love  untrue 

Which  the  Dawn-Goddess  bore 

To  that  fair  youth  she  erst, 

Leaving  the  salt  sea-beds, 
And  coming  flushed  over  the  stormy  frith 

Of  loud  Euripus,  saw,  — 

Saw  and  snatched,  wild  with  love, 

From  the  pine-dotted  spurs 

Of  Parnes,  where  thy  waves, 

Asopus  !  gleam  rock-hemmed,  — 
The  Hunter  of  the  Tanagraean  Field.13 

But  him,  in  his  sweet  prime, 

By  severance  immature, 

By  Artemis'  soft  shafts, 

She,  though  a  goddess  born, 
Saw  in  the  rocky  isle  of  Delos  die. 

Such  end  o'ertook  that  love. 

For  she  desired  to  make 

Immortal  mortal  man, 

And  blend  his  happy  life, 

Far  from  the  gods,  with  hers ; 
To  him  postponing  an  eternal  law. 

H7EMON. 

But  like  me,  she,  wroth,  complaining, 
Succumbed  to  the  envy  of  unkind  gods ; 
And,  her  beautiful  arms  unclasping, 
Her  fair  youth  unwillingly  gave. 

THE   CHORUS. 

Nor,  though  enthroned  too  high 
To  fear  assault  of  envious  gods, 


202  FRAGMENT  OF  AN  "ANTIGONE." 

His  beloved  Argive  seer  would  Zeus  retain 
From  his  appointed  end 

In  this  our  Thebes  ;  but  when 
His  flying  steeds  came  near 
To  cross  the  steep  Ismenian  glen, 
The  broad  earth  opened,  and  whelmed  them  and  him, 
And  through  the  void  air  sang 
At  large  his  enemy's  spear. 

And  fain  would  Zeus  have  saved  his  tired  son, 
Beholding  him  where  the  Two  Pillars  stand 
O'er  the  sun-reddened  western  straits/4 
Or  at  his  work  in  that  dim  lower  world. 
Fain  would  he  have  recalled 
The  fraudulent  oath  which  bound 
To  a  much  feebler  wight  the  heroic  man. 

But  he  preferred  fate  to  his  strong  desire. 
Nor  did  there  need  less  than  the  burning  pile 

Under  the  towering  Trachis  crags, 
And  the  Spercheios  vale,  shaken  with  groans, 

And  the  roused  Maliac  gulf, 

And  scared  OZtaean  snows, 
To  achieve  his  son's  deliverance,  O  my  child  ! 


CHORUS  OF  A    "  DEJANEIRAr  203 

FRAGMENT    OF    CHORUS    OF   A 
"DEJANEIRA." 

O  frivolous  mind  of  man, 

Light  ignorance,  and  hurrying,  unsure  thoughts  ! 

Though  man  bewails  you  not, 

How  I  bewail  you  ! 

Little  in  your  prosperity 

Do  you  seek  counsel  of  the  gods. 

Proud,  ignorant,  self-adored,  you  live  alone. 

In  profound  silence  stern, 

Among  their  savage  gorges  and  cold  springs, 

Unvisited  remain 

The  great  oracular  shrines. 

Thither  in  your  adversity 

Do  you  betake  yourselves  for  light, 

But  strangely  misinterpret  all  you  hear. 

For  you  will  not  put  on 

New  hearts  with  the  inquirer's  holy  robe, 

And  purged,  considerate  minds. 

And  him  on  whom,  at  the  end 

Of  toil  and  dolour  untold, 

The  gods  have  said  that  repose 

At  last  shall  descend  undisturbed,  — 

Him  you  expect  to  behold 

In  an  easy  old  age,  in  a  happy  home  1 

No  end  but  this  you  praise. 

But  him  on  whom,  in  the  prime 
Of  life,  with  vigor  undimmed, 
With  unspent  mind,  and  a  soul 


204  EARLY  DEATH  AND   FAME. 

Unworn,  undebased,  undecayed, 
Mournfully  grating,  the  gates 
Of  the  city  of  death  have  forever  closed, 
Him,  I  count  him,  well-starred. 


EARLY  DEATH  AND  FAME. 

For  him  who  must  see  many  years, 

I  praise  the  life  which  slips  away 

Out  of  the  light,  and  mutely ;  which  avoids 

Fame,  and  her  less  fair  followers,  envy,  strife. 

Stupid  detraction,  jealousy,  cabal, 

Insincere  praises  ;  which  descends 

The  quiet  mossy  track  to  age. 

But  when  immature  death 

Beckons  too  early  the  guest 

From  the  half-tried  banquet  of  life, 

Young,  in  the  bloom  of  his  days ; 

Leaves  no  leisure  to  press, 

Slow  and  surely,  the  sweets 

Of  a  tranquil  life  in  the  shade,  — 

Fuller  for  him  be  the  hours  ! 

Give  him  emotion,  though  pain  ! 

Let  him  live,  let  him  feel,  L  have  lived. 

Heap  up  his  moments  with  life  ! 

Triple  his  pulses  with  fame  I 


PHILOMELA. 

Hark  !  ah,  the  nightingale  — 
The  tawny-throated  ! 


PHILOMELA.  205 

Hark  !  from  that  moonlit  cedar  what  a  burst ! 
What  triumph  !  hark  !  what  pain  ! 

O  wanderer  from  a  Grecian  shore, 

Still,  after  many  years,  in  distant  lands, 

Still  nourishing  in  thy  bewildered  brain 

That  wild,  unquenched,  deep-sunken,  old-world  pain. 

Say,  will  it  never  heal  ? 

And  can  this  fragrant  lawn 

With  its  cool  trees,  and  night, 

And  the  sweet,  tranquil  Thames, 

And  moonshine,  and  the  dew, 

To  thy  racked  heart  and  brain 

Afford  no  balm  ? 

Dost  thou  to-night  behold, 

Here,  through  the  moonlight  on  this  English  grass, 

The  unfriendly  palace  in  the  Thracian  wild  ? 

Dost  thou  again  peruse 

With  hot  cheeks  and  seared  eyes 

The  too  clear  web,  and  thy  dumb  sister's  shame? 

Dost  thou  once  more  assay 

Thy  flight,  and  feel  come  over  thee, 

Poor  fugitive,  the  feathery  change 

Once  more,  and  once  more  seem  to  make  resound 

With  love  and  hate,  triumph  and  agony, 

Lone  Daulis,  and  the  high  Cephissian  vale  ? 

Listen,  Eugenia,  — 

How  thick  the  bursts    come   crowding   through   the 

leaves  ! 
Again  —  thou  hearest  ? 
Eternal  passion  ! 
Eternal  pain  ! 


206  URANIA. 


URANIA. 


She  smiles  and  smiles,  and  will  not  sigh, 
While  we  for  hopeless  passion  die  ; 
Yet  she  could  love,  those  eyes  declare, 
Were  but  men  nobler  than  they  are. 

Eagerly  once  her  gracious  ken 

Was  turned  upon  the  sons  of  men ; 

But  light  the  serious  visage  grew  — 

She  looked,  and  smiled,  and  saw  them  through. 

Our  petty  souls,  our  strutting  wits, 
Our  labored,  puny  passion-fits,  — 
Ah,  may  she  scorn  them  still,  till  we 
Scorn  them  as  bitterly  as  she  ! 

Yet  show  her  once,  ye  heavenly  Powers, 
One  of  some  worthier  race  than  ours  ! 
One  for  whose  sake  she  once  might  prove 
How  deeply  she  who  scorns  can  love. 

His  eyes  be  like  the  starry  lights, 

His  voice  like  sounds  of  summer  nights  ; 

In  all  his  lovely  mien  let  pierce 

The  magic  of  the  universe  ! 

And  she  to  him  will  reach  her  hand, 
And  gazing  in  his  eyes  will  stand, 
And  know  her  friend,  and  weep  for  glee, 
And  cry,  Long,  long  Pve  looked  for  thee. 

Then  will  she  weep  :  with  smiles,  till  then, 
Coldly  she  mocks  the  sons  of  men  ; 
Till  then,  her  lovely  eyes  maintain 
Their  pure,  unwavering,  deep  disdain. 


EUPHROSYNE.  20y 


EUPHROSYNE. 


I  must  not  say  that  she  was  true, 
Yet  let  me  say  that  she  was  fair ; 
And  they,  that  lovely  face  who  view, 
They  should  not  ask  if  truth  be  there. 

Truth  —what  is  truth ?     Two  bleeding  hearts, 
Wounded  by  men,  by  fortune  tried, 
Outwearied  with  their  lonely  parts, 
Vow  to  beat  henceforth  side  by  side. 

The  world  to  them  was  stern  and  drear, 
Their  lot  was  but  to  weep  and  moan ; 
Ah  !  let  them  keep  their  faith  sincere, 
For  neither  could  subsist  alone. 

But  souls  whom  some  benignant  breath 
Hath  charmed  at  birth  from  gloom  and  care,  - 
These  ask  no  love,  these  plight  no  faith, 
For  they  are  happy  as  they  are. 

The  world  to  them  may  homage  make, 
And  garlands  for  their  forehead  weave ; 
And  what  the  world  can  give,  they  take  — 
But  they  bring  more  than  they  receive. 

They  shine  upon  the  world  ;  their  ears 
To  one  demand  alone  are  coy  : 
They  will  not  give  us  love  and  tears, 
They  bring  us  light  and  warmth  and  joy. 

On  one  she  smiled,  and  he  was  blest ; 
She  smiles  elsewhere  —  we  make  a  din  ! 
But  'twas  not  love  which  heaved  her  breast, 
Fair  child  !  it  was  the  bliss  within. 


208  CALAIS  SANDS. 


CALAIS  SANDS. 


A  thousand  knights  have  reined  their  steeds 
To  watch  this  line  of  sand-hills  run, 
Along  the  never-silent  strait, 
To  Calais  glittering  in  the  sun  j 

To  look  toward  Ardres'  Golden  Field 
Across  this  wide  aerial  plain, 
Which  glows  as  if  the  Middle  Age 
Were  gorgeous  upon  earth  again. 

Oh,  that  to  share  this  famous  scene, 

I  saw,  upon  the  open  sand, 

Thy  lovely  presence  at  my  side,  — 

Thy  shawl,  thy  look,  thy  smile,  thy  hand  ! 

How  exquisite  thy  voice  would  come, 
My  darling,  on  this  lonely  air  ! 
How  sweetly  would  the  fresh  sea-breeze 
Shake  loose  some  band  of  soft  brown  hair  ! 

Yet  now  my  glance  but  once  hath  roved 
O'er  Calais  and  its  famous  plain  ; 
To  England's  cliffs  my  gaze  is  turned, 
O'er  the  blue  strait  mine  eyes  I  strain. 

Thou  comest !     Yes  !  the  vessel's  cloud 
Hangs  dark  upon  the  rolling  sea. 
Oh  that  yon  sea-bird's  wings  were  mine, 
To  win  one  instant's  glimpse  of  thee  ! 

I  must  not  spring  to  grasp  thy  hand, 
To  woo  thy  smile,  to  seek  thine  eye ; 
But  I  may  stand  far  off,  and  gaze, 
And  watch  thee  pass  unconscious  by, — 


FADED  LEAVES.  209 

And  spell  thy  looks,  and  guess  thy  thoughts, 
Mixed  with  the  idlers  on  the  pier. 
Ah  !  might  I  always  rest  unseen, 
So  I  might  have  thee  always  near  ! 

To-morrow  hurry  through  the  fields 
Of  Flanders  to  the  storied  Rhine  ! 
To-night  those  soft-fringed  eyes  shall  close 
Beneath  one  roof,  my  queen  !  with  mine. 


FADED  LEAVES. 

I.     THE   RIVER. 

Still  glides  the  stream,  slow  drops  the  boat 

Under  the  rustling  poplars'  shade  ; 

Silent  the  swans  beside  us  float : 

None  speaks,  none  heeds  ;  ah,  turn  thy  head  ! 

Let  those  arch  eyes  now  softly  shine, 
That  mocking  mouth  grow  sweetly  bland ; 
Ah  !  let  them  rest,  those  eyes,  on  mine  ! 
On  mine  let  rest  that  lovely  hand  ! 

My  pent-up  tears  oppress  my  brain, 
My  heart  is  swoln  with  love  unsaid. 
Ah  !  let  me  weep,  and  tell  my  pain, 
And  on  thy  shoulder  rest  my  head  ! 

Before  I  die,  —  before  the  soul, 
Which  now  is  mine,  must  re-attain 
Immunity  from  my  control, 
And  wander  round  the  world  again  ; 


210  FADED  LEAVES. 

Before  this  teased,  o'er-labored  heart 
Forever  leaves  its  vain  employ, 
Dead  to  its  deep  habitual  smart, 
And  dead  to  hopes  of  future  joy. 

II.     TOO   LATE. 

Each  on  his  own  strict  line  we  move, 
And  some  find  death  ere  they  find  love  j 
So  far  apart  their  lives  are  thrown 
From  the  twin  soul  that  halves  their  own. 

And  sometimes,  by  still  harder  fate, 
The  lovers  meet,  but  meet  too  late. 

—  Thy  heart  is  mine  !     True,  true!  ah,  true! 

—  Then,  love,  thy  hand  !     Ah,  no  !  adieu  ! 

III.     SEPARATION. 

Stop  !  not  to  me,  at  this  bitter  departing, 
Speak  of  the  sure  consolations  of  time  ! 

Fresh  be  the  wound,  still-renewed  be  its  smarting, 
So  but  thy  image  endure  in  its  prime  ! 

But  if  the  steadfast  commandment  of  Nature 
Wills  that  remembrance  should  always  decay ; 

If  the  loved  form  and  the  deep-cherished  feature 
Must,  when  unseen,  from  the  soul  fade  away,  — 

Me  let  no  half-effaced  memories  cumber ; 

Fled,  fled  at  once,  be  all  vestige  of  thee  ! 
Deep  be  the  darkness,  and  still  be  the  slumber ; 

Dead  be  the  past  and  its  phantoms  to  me  ! 

Then,  when  we  meet,  and  thy  look  strays  toward  me, 
Scanning  my  face  and  the  changes  wrought  there ; 

Who,  let  me  say,  is  this  stranger  regards  me, 
With  the  gray  eyes,  and  the  lovely  brown  hair? 


FADED   LEAVES.  211 

IV.     ON   THE   RHINE. 

Vain  is  the  effort  to  forget. 
Some  day  I  shall  be  cold,  I  know, 
As  is  the  eternal  moon-lit  snow 
Of  the  high  Alps,  to  which  I  go ; 
But  ah  !  not  yet,  not  yet ! 

Vain  is  the  agony  of  grief. 

Tis  true,  indeed,  an  iron  knot 

Ties  straitly  up  from  mine  thy  lot ; 

And,  were  it  snapped  —  thou  lov'st  me  not ! 

But  is  despair  relief? 

A  while  let  me  with  thought  have  done. 
And  as  this  brimmed  unwrinkled  Rhine, 
And  that  far  purple  mountain  line, 
Lie  sweetly  in  the  look  divine 
Of  the  slow-sinking  sun  ; 

So  let  me  lie,  and,  calm  as  they, 

Let  beam  upon  my  inward  view 

Those  eyes  of  deep,  soft,  lucent  hue,  — 

Eyes  too  expressive  to  be  blue, 

Too  lovely  to  be  gray. 

Ah,  quiet,  all  things  feel  thy  balm  ! 
Those  blue  hills  too,  this  river's  flow, 
Were  restless  once,  but  long  ago. 
Tamed  is  their  turbulent  youthful  glow  ; 
Their  joy  is  in  their  calm. 

V.     LONGING. 

Come  to  me  in  my  dreams,  and  then 
By  day  I  shall  be  well  again  ! 
For  then  the  night  will  more  than  pay 
The  hopeless  longing  of  the  day. 


2 1 2  SELF-DECEPTION. 

Come,  as  thou  cam'st  a  thousand  times, 
A  messenger  from  radiant  climes, 
And  smile  on  thy  new  world,  and  be 
As  kind  to  others  as  to  me  ! 

Or,  as  thou  never  cam'st  in  sooth, 
Come  now,  and  let  me  dream  it  truth ; 
And  part  my  hair,  and  kiss  my  brow, 
And  say,  My  love  !  why  sufferest  thou  ? 

Come  to  me  in  my  dreams,  and  then 
By  day  I  shall  be  well  again  ! 
For  then  the  night  will  more  than  pay 
The  hopeless  longing  of  the  day. 


DESPONDENCY. 

The  thoughts  that  rain  their  steady  glow 
Like  stars  on  life's  cold  sea, 
Which  others  know,  or  say  they  know,  — 
They  never  shone  for  me. 

Thoughts  light,  like  gleams,  my  spirit's  sky, 
But  they  will  not  remain. 
They  light  me  once,  they  hurry  by, 
And  never  come  again. 


SELF-DE  CEPTION. 

Say,  what  blinds  us,  that  we  claim  the  glory 
Of  possessing  powers  not  our  share  ? 
—  Since  man  woke  on  earth,  he  knows  his  story ; 
But,  before  we  woke  on  earth,  we  were. 


DOVER  BEACH.  21 3 

Long,  long  since,  undowered  yet,  our  spirit 
Roamed,  ere  birth,  the  treasuries  of  God ; 
Saw  the  gifts,  the  powers  it  might  inherit, 
Asked  an  outfit  for  its  earthly  road. 

Then,  as  now,  this  tremulous,  eager  being 
Strained  and  longed,  and  grasped  each  gift  it  saw ; 
Then,  as  now,  a  Power  beyond  our  seeing 
Staved  us  back,  and  gave  our  choice  the  law. 

Ah  !  whose  hand  that  day  through  heaven  guided 
Man's  new  spirit,  since  it  was  not  we  ? 
Ah  !  who  swayed  our  choice,  and  who  decided 
What  our  gifts  and  what  our  wants  should  be  ? 

For,  alas  !  he  left  us  each  retaining 
Shreds  of  gifts  which  he  refused  in  full ; 
Still  these  waste  us  with  their  hopeless  straining, 
Still  the  attempt  to  use  them  proves  them  null. 

And  on  earth  we  wander,  groping,  reeling ; 
Powers  stir  in  us,  stir  and  disappear. 
Ah  !  and  he,  who  placed  our  master-feeling, 
Failed  to  place  that  master-feeling  clear. 

We  but  dream  we  have  our  wished-for  powers ; 
Ends  we  seek,  we  never  shall  attain. 
Ah  !  some  power  exists  there,  which  is  ours? 
Some  end  is  there,  we  indeed  may  gain  ? 


DOVER  BEACH. 

The  sea  is  calm  to-night. 

The  tide  is  full,  the  moon  lies  fair 

Upon  the  straits ;  on  the  French  coast,  the  light 

Gleams  and  is  gone ;  the  cliffs  of  England  stand, 

Glimmering  and  vast,  out  in  the  tranquil  bay. 


214  DOVER  BEACH. 

Come  to  the  window,  sweet  is  the  night-air  ! 
Only,  from  the  long  line  of  spray- 
Where  the  sea  meets  the  moon-blanched  sand, 
Listen  !  you  hear  the  grating  roar 
Of  pebbles  which  the  waves  draw  back,  and  fling, 
At  their  return,  up  the  high  strand, 
Begin  and  cease,  and  then  again  begin, 
With  tremulous  cadence  slow,  and  bring 

The  eternal  note  of  sadness  in. 

i 

Sophocles  long  ago 

Heard  it  on  the  ^Egean,  and  it  brought 

Into  his  mind  the  turbid  ebb  and  flow 

Of  human  misery  :  we 

Find  also  in  the  sound  a  thought, 

Hearing  it  by  this  distant  northern  sea. 

The  sea  of  faith 

Was  once,  too,  at  the  full,  and  round  earth's  shore 

Lay  like  the  folds  of  a  bright  girdle  furled. 

But  now  I  only  hear 

Its  melancholy,  long,  withdrawing  roar, 

Retreating,  to  the  breath 

Of  the  night-wind,  down  the  vast  edges  drear 

And  naked  shingles  of  the  world. 

Ah,  love,  let  us  be  true 

To  one  another  !  for  the  world,  which  seems 

To  lie  before  us  like  a  land  of  dreams, 

So  various,  so  beautiful,  so  new, 

Hath  really  neither  joy,  nor  love,  nor  light, 

Nor  certitude,  nor  peace,  nor  help  for  pain ; 

And  we  are  here  as  on  a  darkling  plain 

Swept  with  confused  alarms  of  struggle  and  flight, 

Where  ignorant  armies  clash  by  night. 


GROWING   OLD.  215 

GROWING    OLD. 

What  is  it  to  grow  old? 

Is  it  to  lose  the  glory  of  the  form, 

The  lustre  of  the  eye  ? 

Is  it  for  beauty  to  forego  her  wreath  ? 

—  Yes,  but  not  this  alone. 

Is  it  to  feel  our  strength  — 

Not  our  bloom  only,  but  our  strength  —  decay  ? 

Is  it  to  feel  each  limb 

Grow  stiffer,  every  function  less  exact, 

Each  nerve  more  loosely  strung? 

Yes,  this,  and  more  ;  but  not, 

Ah  !  'tis  not  what  in  youth  we  dreamed  'twould  be. 

Tis  not  to  have  our  life 

Mellowed  and  softened  as  with  sunset-glow,  — 

A  golden  day's  decline. 

'Tis  not  to  see  the  world 

As  from  a  height,  with  rapt  prophetic  eyes, 

And  heart  profoundly  stirred  ; 

And  weep,  and  feel  the  fulness  of  the  past, 

The  years  that  are  no  more. 

It  is  to  spend  long  days, 

And  not  once  feel  that  we  were  ever  young ; 

It  is  to  add,  immured 

In  the  hot  prison  of  the  present,  month 

To  month  with  weary  pain. 

It  is  to  suffer  this, 

And  feel  but  half,  and  feebly,  what  we  feel. 

Deep  in  our  hidden  heart 

Festers  the  dull  remembrance  of  a  change, 

But  no  emotion,  —  none. 


2i6  PIS-ALLER. 

It  is  —  last  stage  of  all  — 

When  we  are  frozen  up  within,  and  quite 

The  phantom  of  ourselves, 

To  hear  the  world  applaud  the  hollow  ghost, 

Which  blamed  the  living  man. 


THE  PROGRESS   OF  POESY. 

A   VARIATION. 

Youth  rambles  on  life's  arid  mount, 
And  strikes  the  rock,  and  finds  the  vein, 
And  brings  the  water  from  the  fount,  — 
The  fount  which  shall  not  flow  again. 

The  man  mature  with  labor  chops 
For  the  bright  stream  a  channel  grand, 
And  sees  not  that  the  sacred  drops 
Ran  off  and  vanished  out  of  hand. 

And  then  the  old  man  totters  nigh, 
And  feebly  rakes  among  the  stones. 
The  mount  is  mute,  the  channel  dry ; 
And  down  he  lays  his  weary  bones. 


PIS  ALLER. 


"  Man  is  blind  because  of  sin  ; 
Revelation  makes  him  sure  : 
Without  that,  who  looks  within 
Looks  in  vain,  for  all's  obscure." 

Nay,  look  closer  into  man  ! 

Tell  me,  can  you  find  indeed 

Nothing  sure,  no  moral  plan 

Clear  prescribed,  without  your  creed  ? 


A   NAMELESS  EPITAPH.  21? 

"  No,  I  nothing  can  perceive  ! 
Without  that,  all's  dark  for  men. 
That,  or  nothing,  I  believe."  — 
For  God's  sake,  believe  it,  then  ! 


THE  LAST  WORD. 

Creep  into  thy  narrow  bed,  — 
Creep,  and  let  no  more  be  said. 
Vain  thy  onset !  all  stands  fast. 
Thou  thyself  must  break  at  last. 

Let  the  long  contention  cease  ! 
Geese  are  swans,  and  swans  are  geese. 
Let  them  have  it  how  they  will ! 
Thou  art  tired  :  best  be  still. 

They  out-talked  thee,  hissed  thee,  tore  thee? 
Better  men  fared  thus  before  thee  ; 
Fired  their  ringing  shot,  and  passed, 
Hotly  charged  —  and  sank  at  last. 

Charge  once  more,  then,  and  be  dumb  ! 
Let  the  victors,  when  they  come, 
When  the  forts  of  folly  fall, 
Find  thy  body  by  the  wall ! 


A   NAMELESS  EPLTAPH. 

Ask  not  my  name,  O  friend  ! 

That  Being  only,  which  hath  known  each  man 

From  the  beginning,  can 

Remember  each  unto  the  end. 


EMPEDOCLES   ON  ETNA. 

A   DRAMATIC    POEM. 


PERSONS. 

Empedocles. 
Pausanias,  a  Physician. 
Callicles,  a  young  Harp-player. 

The  Scene  of  the  Poem  is  on  Mount  Etna  ;  at  first  in  the  forest  region, 
afterwards  on  the  summit  of  the  mountain. 


ACT    I. 


Scene  I.  —  Mowing.    A  Pass  in   the  forest  region  of 

Etna. 

callicles  {alone,  resting  on  a  rock  by  the  path ) . 

The  mules,  I  think,  will  not  be  here  this  hour  : 
They  feel  the  cool  wet  turf  under  their  feet 
By  the  stream-side,  after  the  dusty  lanes 
In  which  they  have  toiled  all  night  from  Catana, 
And  scarcely  will  they  budge  a  yard.     O  Pan, 
How  gracious  is  the  mountain  at  this  hour  ! 
A  thousand  times  have  I  been  here  alone, 
Or  with  the  revellers  from  the  mountain  towns, 
But  never  on  so  fair  a  morn.     The  sun 
Is  shining  on  the  brilliant  mountain  crests, 
And  on  the  highest  pines ;  but  farther  down, 
Here  in  the  valley,  is  in  shade  ;  the  sward 
Is  dark,  and  on  the  stream  the  mist  still  hangs ; 
One  sees  one's  footprints  crushed  in  the  wet  grass, 
218 


EMPEDOCLES   ON  ETNA.  2ig 

One's  breath  curls  in  the  air ;  and  on  these  pines 
That  climb  from  the  stream's  edge,  the  long  gray  tufts, 
Which  the  goats  love,  are  jewelled  thick  with  dew. 
Here  will  I  stay  till  the  slow  litter  comes. 
I  have  my  harp  too  :  that  is  well.  —  Apollo  ! 
What  mortal  could  be  sick  or  sorry  here  ? 
I  know  not  in  what  mind  Empedocles, 
Whose  mules  I  followed,  may  be  coming  up ; 
But  if,  as  most  men  say,  he  is  half  mad 
With  exile,  and  with  brooding  on  his  wrongs, 
Pausanias,  his  sage  friend,  who  mounts  with  him, 
Could  scarce  have  lighted  on  a  lovelier  cure. 
The  mules  must  be  below,  far  down.     I  hear 
Their  tinkling  bells,  mixed  with  the  song  of  birds, 
Rise  faintly  to  me  :  now  it  stops  !  —  Who's  here  ? 
Pausanias  !  and  on  foot  ?  alone  ? 

PAUSANIAS. 

And  thou,  then  ? 
I  left  thee  supping  with  Peisianax, 
With  thy  head  full  of  wine,  and  thy  hair  crowned, 
Touching  thy  harp  as  the  whim  came  on  thee, 
And  praised  and  spoiled  by  master  and  by  guests 
Almost  as  much  as  the  new  dancing-girl. 
Why  hast  thou  followed  us? 

CALLICLES. 

The  night  was  hot, 
And  the  feast  past  its  prime  :  so  we  slipped  out, 
Some  of  us,  to  the  portico  to  breathe,  — 
Peisianax,  thou  know'st,  drinks  late,  —  and  then, 
As  I  was  lifting  my  soiled  garland  off, 
I  saw  the  mules  and  litter  in  the  court, 
And  in  the  litter  sate  Empedocles ; 
Thou  too  wast  with  him.     Straightway  I  sped  home; 


220  EMPEDOCLES   ON  ETNA. 

I  saddled  my  white  mule,  and  all  night  long 
Through  the  cool  lovely  country  followed  you, 
Passed  you  a  little  since  as  morning  dawned, 
And  have  this  hour  sate  by  the  torrent  here, 
Till  the  slow  mules  should  climb  in  sight  again. 
And  now? 

PAUSANIAS. 

And  now,  back  to  the  town  with  speed  ! 
Crouch  in  the  wood  first,  till  the  mules  have  passed ; 
They  do  but  halt,  they  will  be  here  anon. 
Thou  must  be  viewless  to  Empedocles ; 
Save  mine,  he  must  not  meet  a  human  eye. 
One  of  his  moods  is  on  him  that  thou  know'st ; 
I  think,  thou  wouldst  not  vex  him. 

CALLICLES.  XT  j        4. 

No ;  and  yet 
I  would  fain  stay,  and  help  thee  tend  him.     Once 
He  knew  me  well,  and  would  oft  notice  me ; 
And  still,  I  know  not  how,  he  draws  me  to  him, 
And  I  could  watch  him  with  his  proud  sad  face, 
His  flowing  locks  and  gold-encircled  brow 
And  kingly  gait,  forever ;  such  a  spell 
In  his  severe  looks,  such  a  majesty 
As  drew  of  old  the  people  after  him, 
In  Agrigentum  and  Olympia, 
When  his  star  reigned,  before  his  banishment, 
Is  potent  still  on  me  in  his  decline. 
But,  O  Pausanias,  he  is  changed  of  late  : 
There  is  a  settled  trouble  in  his  air 
Admits  no  momentary  brightening  now  ; 
And  when  he  comes  among  his  friends  at  feasts, 
'Tis  as  an  orphan  among  prosperous  boys. 
Thou  know'st  of  old  he  loved  this  harp  of  mine, 
When  first  he  sojourned  with  Peisianax ; 


EMPEDOCLES   ON  ETNA.  221 

He  is  now  always  moody,  and  I  fear  him  ; 
But  I  would  serve  him,  soothe  him,  if  I  could, 
Dared  one  but  try. 

'  PAUSANIAS. 

Thou  wast  a  kind  child  ever. 
He  loves  thee,  but  he  must  not  see  thee  now. 
Thou  hast  indeed  a  rare  touch  on  thy  harp ; 
He  loves  that  in  thee,  too ;  there  was  a  time 
(But  that  is  past),  he  would  have  paid  thy  strain 
With  music  to  have  drawn  the  stars  from  heaven. 
He  has  his  harp  and  laurel  with  him  still ; 
But  he  has  laid  the  use  of  music  by, 
And  all  which  might  relax  his  settled  gloom. 
Yet  thou  may'st  try  thy  playing,  if  thou  wilt, 
But  thou  must  keep  unseen  :  follow  us  on, 
But  at  a  distance  !  in  these  solitudes, 
In  this  clear  mountain  air,  a  voice  will  rise, 
Though  from  afar,  distinctly ;  it  may  soothe  him. 
Play  when  we  halt ;  and  when  the  evening  comes, 
And  I  must  leave  him  (for  his  pleasure  is 
To  be  left  musing  these  soft  nights  alone 
In  the  high  unfrequented  mountain  spots), 
Then  watch  him,  for  he  ranges  swift  and  far, 
Sometimes  to  Etna's  top,  and  to  the  cone  ; 
But  hide  thee  in  the  rocks  a  great  way  down, 
And  try  thy  noblest  strains,  my  Callicles, 
With  the  sweet  night  to  help  thy  harmony  ! 
Thou  wilt  earn  my  thanks  sure,  and  perhaps  his. 

CALLICLES. 

More  than  a  day  and  night,  Pausanias, 
Of  this  fair  summer-weather,  on  these  hills, 
Would  I  bestow  to  help  Empedocles. 
That  needs  no  thanks  :  one  is  far  better  here 
Than  in  the  broiling  city  in  these  heats. 


222  EMPEDOCLES  ON  ETNA. 

But  tell  me,  how  hast  thou  persuaded  him 
In  this  his  present  fierce,  man-hating  mood, 
To  bring  thee  out  with  him  alone  on  Etna? 

PAUSANIAS. 

Thou  hast  heard  all  men  speaking  of  Pantheia, 

The  woman  who  at  Agrigentum  lay 

Thirty  long  days  in  a  cold  trance  of  death, 

And  whom  Empedocles  called  back  to  life. 

Thou  art  too  young  to  note  it,  but  his  power 

Swells  with  the  swelling  evil  of  this  time, 

And  holds  men  mute  to  see  where  it  will  rise. 

He  could  stay  swift  diseases  in  old  days, 

Chain  madmen  by  the  music  of  his  lyre, 

Cleanse  to  sweet  airs  the  breath  of  poisonous  streams, 

And  in  the  mountain  chinks  inter  the  winds. 

This  he  could  do  of  old ;  but  now,  since  all 

Clouds  and  grows  daily  worse  in  Sicily, 

Since  broils  tear  us  in  twain,  since  this  new  swarm 

Of  sophists  has  got  empire  in  our  schools 

Where  he  was  paramount,  since  he  is  banished, 

And  lives  a  lonely  man  in  triple  gloom,  — 

He  grasps  the  very  reins  of  life  and  death. 

I  asked  him  of  Pantheia  yesterday, 

When  we  were  gathered  with  Peisianax ; 

And  he  made  answer,  I  should  come  at  night 

On  Etna  here,  and  be  alone  with  him, 

And  he  would  tell  me,  as  his  old,  tried  friend, 

Who  still  was  faithful,  what  might  profit  me,  — 

That  is,  the  secret  of  this  miracle. 

CALLICLES. 

Bah  !     Thou  a  doctor  !     Thou  art  superstitious. 
Simple  Pausanias,  'twas  no  miracle  ! 
Pantheia,  for  I  know  her  kinsmen  well, 


EMPEDOCLES  ON  ETNA.  223 

Was  subject  to  these  trances  from  a  girl. 

Empedocles  would  say  so,  did  he  deign ; 

But  he  still  lets  the  people,  whom  he  scorns, 

Gape  and  cry  wizard  at  him,  if  they  list. 

But  thou,  thou  art  no  company  for  him  : 

Thou  art  as  cross,  as  soured  as  himself. 

Thou  hast  some  wrong  from  thine  own  citizens, 

And  then  thy  friend  is  banished ;  and  on  that, 

Straightway  thou  fallest  to  arraign  the  times, 

As  if  the  sky  was  impious  not  to  fall. 

The  sophists  are  no  enemies  of  his ; 

I  hear,  Gorgias,  their  chief,  speaks  nobly  of  him, 

As  of  his  gifted  master,  and  once  friend. 

He  is  too  scornful,  too  high-wrought,  too  bitter. 

'Tis  not  the  times,  'tis  not  the  sophists,  vex  him  : 

There  is  some  root  of  suffering  in  himself, 

Some  secret  and  unfollowed  vein  of  woe, 

Which  makes  the  time  look  black  and  sad  to  him. 

Pester  him  not,  in  this  his  sombre  mood, 

With  questionings  about  an  idle  tale, 

But  lead  him  through  the  lovely  mountain  paths, 

And  keep  his  mind  from  preying  on  itself, 

And  talk  to  him  of  things  at  hand  and  common, 

Not  miracles  !  thou  art  a  learned  man, 

But  credulous  of  fables  as  a  girl. 

PAUSANIAS. 

And  thou,  a  boy  whose  tongue  outruns  his  knowledge, 

And  on  whose  lightness  blame  is  thrown  away. 

Enough  of  this  !     I  see  the  litter  wind 

Up  by  the  torrent-side,  under  the  pines. 

I  must  rejoin  Empedocles.     Do  thou 

Crouch  in  the  brushwood  till  the  mules  have  passed  ; 

Then  play  thy  kind  part  well.     Farewell  till  night ! 


224  EMPEDOCLES  ON  ETNA. 


Scene  II.  —  Noon.     A  Glen  on  the  highest  skirts  of  the  woody 

region  of  Etna. 

EMPEDOCLES.      PAUSANIAS. 

PAUSANIAS. 

The  noon  is  hot.     When  we  have  crossed  the  stream, 
We  shall  have  left  the  woody  tract,  and  come 
Upon  the  open  shoulder  of  the  hill. 
See  how  the  giant  spires  of  yellow  bloom 
Of  the  sun-loving  gentian,  in  the  heat,15 
Are  shining  on  those  naked  slopes  like  flame  ! 
Let  us  rest  here  ;  and  now,  Empedocles, 
Pantheia's  history  ! 

[A  harp-note  below  is  heard. 

EMPEDOCLES. 

Hark  !  what  sound  was  that 
Rose  from  below?     If  it  were  possible, 
And  we  were  not  so  far  from  human  haunt, 
I  should  have  said  that  some  one  touched  a  harp. 
Hark  !  there  again  ! 

PAUSANIAS. 

Tis  the  boy  Callicles, 
The  sweetest  harp-player  in  Catana. 
He  is  forever  coming  on  these  hills, 
In  summer,  to  all  country-festivals, 
With  a  gay  revelling  band  ;  he  breaks  from  them 
Sometimes,  and  wanders  far  among  the  glens. 
But  heed  him  not,  he  will  not  mount  to  us  ; 
I  spoke  with  him  this  morning.     Once  more,  therefore, 
Instruct  me  of  Pantheia's  story,  master, 
As  I  have  prayed  thee. 


EMPEDOCLES  ON  ETNA.  225 

EMPEDOCLES. 

That?  and  to  what  end? 

PAUSANIAS. 

It  is  enough  that  all  men  speak  of  it. 

But  I  will  also  say,  that  when  the  gods 

Visit  us  as  they  do  with  sign  and  plague, 

To  know  those  spells  of  thine  which  stay  their  hand 

Were  to  live  free  from  terror. 

EMPEDOCLES. 

Spells  ?     Mistrust  them  ! 
Mind  is  the  spell  which  governs  earth  and  heaven ; 
Man  has  a  mind  with  which  to  plan  his  safety,  — 
Know  that,  and  help  thyself ! 

PAUSANIAS. 

But  thine  own  words  ? 
"The  wit  and  counsel  of  man  was  never  clear; 
Troubles  confound  the  little  wit  he  has." 
Mind  is  a  light  which  the  gods  mock  us  with, 
To  lead  those  false  who  trust  it. 

[  The  harp  saimds  again 

EMPEDOCLES. 

Hist !  once  more  ! 
Listen,  Pausanias  !  —  Ay,  'tis  Callicles ; 
I  know  those  notes  among  a  thousand.     Hark  ! 

callicles  {sings  unseen,  from  below). 
The  track  winds  down  to  the  clear  stream, 
To  cross  the  sparkling  shallows ;  there 
The  cattle  love  to  gather,  on  their  way 
To  the  high  mountain  pastures,  and  to  stay, 


226  EMPEDOCLES   ON  ETNA. 

Till  the  rough  cow-herds  drive  them  past, 

Knee-deep  in  the  cool  ford ;  for  'tis  the  last 

Of  all  the  woody,  high,  well-watered  dells 

On  Etna ;  and  the  beam 

Of  noon  is  broken  there  by  chestnut-boughs 

Down  its  steep  verdant  sides ;  the  air 

Is  freshened  by  the  leaping  stream,  which  throws 

Eternal  showers  of  spray  on  the  mossed  roots 

Of  trees,  and  veins  of  turf,  and  long  dark  shoots 

Of  ivy-plants,  and  fragrant  hanging  bells 

Of  hyacinths,  and  on  late  anemones, 

That  muffle  its  wet  banks  ;  but  glade, 

And  stream,  and  sward,  and  chestnut-trees, 

End  here  ;  Etna  beyond,  in  the  broad  glare 

Of  the  hot  noon,  without  a  shade, 

Slope  behind  slope,  up  to  the  peak,  lies  bare,  — 

The  peak,  round  which  the  white  clouds  play. 

In  such  a  glen,  on  such  a  day, 
On  Pelion,  on  the  grassy  ground 
Chiron,  the  aged  Centaur,  lay, 
The  young  Achilles  standing  by. 
The  Centaur  taught  him  to  explore 
The  mountains  ;  where  the  glens  are  dry, 
And  the  tired  Centaurs  come  to  rest, 
And  where  the  soaking  springs  abound, 
And  the  straight  ashes  grow  for  spears, 
And  where  the  hill-goats  come  to  feed, 
And  the  sea-eagles  build  their  nest. 
He  showed  him  Phthia  far  away, 
And  said,  "  O  boy,  I  taught  this  lore 
To  Peleus,  in  long-distant  years  !  " 
He  told  him  of  the  gods,  the  stars, 
The  tides ;  and  then  of  mortal  wars.. 


EMPEDOCLES   ON  ETNA.  227 

And  of  the  life  which  heroes  lead 
Before  they  reach  the  Elysian  place, 
And  rest  in  the  immortal  mead  ; 
And  all  the  wisdom  of  his  race. 

The  music  below  ceases,  and  Empedocles  speaks,  accompanying 
himself  in  a  so/emu  manner  on  his  harp. 

The  out-spread  world  to  span, 
A  cord  the  gods  first  slung, 
And  then  the  soul  of  man 
There,  like  a  mirror,  hung, 
And  bade  the  winds  through  space  impel  the  gusty 
toy. 

Hither  and  thither  spins 
The  wind-borne,  mirroring  soul ; 
A  thousand  glimpses  wins, 
And  never  sees  a  whole  ; 
Looks  once,  and  drives  elsewhere,  and  leaves  its  last 
employ. 

The  gods  laugh  in  their  sleeve 
To  watch  man  doubt  and  fear, 
Who  knows  not  what  to  believe 
Since  he  sees  nothing  clear, 
And  dares  stamp  nothing  false  where  he  finds  nothing 
sure. 

Is  this,  Pausanias,  so? 
And  can  our  souls  not  strive, 
But  with  the  winds  must  go, 
And  hurry  where  they  drive? 
Is  Fate  indeed  so  strong,  man's  strength  indeed  so 
poor? 


228  EMPEDOCLES  ON  ETNA. 

I  will  not  judge.     That  man, 
Howbeit,  I  judge  as  lost, 
Whose  mind  allows  a  plan, 
Which  would  degrade  it  most ; 
And  he  treats  doubt  the  best  who  tries  to  see  least  ill. 

Be  not,  then,  fear's  blind  slave  ! 
Thou  art  my  friend  ;  to  thee, 
All  knowledge  that  I  have, 
All  skill  I  wield,  are  free. 
Ask  not  the  latest  news  of  the  last  miracle,  — 

Ask  not  what  days  and  nights 
In  trance  Pantheia  lay, 
But  ask  how  thou  such  sights 
May'st  see  without  dismay ; 
Ask   what   most    helps   when     known,    thou    son   of 
Anchitus  ! 

What !  hate,  and  awe,  and  shame 
Fill  thee  to  see  our  time  ; 
Thou  feelest  thy  soul's  frame 
Shaken  and  out  of  chime  ? 
What !   life   and   chance  go  hard  with   thee  too,  as 
with  us ; 

Thy  citizens,  'tis  said, 
Envy  thee  and  oppress, 
Thy  goodness  no  men  aid, 
All  strive  to  make  it  less  ; 
Tyranny,  pride,  and  lust  fill  Sicily's  abodes ; 

Heaven  is  with  earth  at  strife  ; 
Signs  make  thy  soul  afraid,  — 
The  dead  return  to  life, 
Rivers  are  dried,  winds  stayed  ; 
Scarce  can  one  think  in  calm,  so  threatening  are  the 
gods  ; 


EMFEDOCLES   ON  ETNA.  22C) 

And  we  feel,  day  and  night, 
The  burden  of  ourselves  : 
Well,  then,  the  wiser  wight 
In  his  own  bosom  delves, 
And  asks  what  ails  him  so,  and  gets  what  cure  he  can. 

The  sophist  sneers,  "  Fool,  take 
Thy  pleasure,  right  or  wrong." 
The  pious  wail,  "  Forsake 
A  world  these  sophists  throng." 
Be  neither  saint-  nor  sophist-led,  but  be  a  man  ! 

These  hundred  doctors  try 
To  preach  thee  to  their  school. 
"  We  have  the  truth  !  "  they  cry ; 
And  yet  their  oracle, 
Trumpet  it  as  they  will,  is  but  the  same  as  thine. 

Once  read  thy  own  breast  right, 
And  thou  hast  done  with  fears ; 
Man  gets  no  other  light, 
Search  he  a  thousand  years. 
Sink  in  thyself !  there  ask  what  ails  thee,  at  that  shrine. 

What  makes  thee  struggle  and  rave? 
Why  are  men  ill  at  ease? 
'Tis  that  the  lot  they  have 
Fails  their  own  will  to  please  ; 
For  man  would  make   no  murmuring,  were  his  will 
obeyed. 

And  why  is  it,  that  still 
Man  with  his  lot  thus  fights  ? 
'Tis  that  he  makes  this  will 
The  measure  of  his  rights, 
And  believes  nature  outraged  if  his  will's  gainsaid. 


230  EMPEDOCLES  ON  ETNA. 

Couldst  thou,  Pausanias,  learn 
How  deep  a  fault  is  this ; 
Couldst  thou  but  once  discern 
Thou  hast  no  right  to  bliss, 
No  title  from  the  gods  to  welfare  and  repose,  — 

Then  thou  wouldst  look  less  mazed 
Whene'er  of  bliss  debarred, 
Nor  think  the  gods  were  crazed 
When  thy  own  lot  went  hard. 
But  we  are  all  the  same,  —  the  fools  of  our  own  woes  ! 

For,  from  the  first  faint  morn 
Of  life,  the  thirst  for  bliss 
Deep  in  man's  heart  is  born ; 
And,  sceptic  as  he  is, 
He  fails  not  to  judge  clear  if  this  be  quenched  or  no. 

Nor  is  that  thirst  to  blame. 
Man  errs  not  that  he  deems 
His  welfare  his  true  aim  : 
He  errs  because  he  dreams 
The  world  does  but  exist  that  welfare  to  bestow. 

We  mortals  are  no  kings 
For  each  of  whom  to  sway 
A  new-made  world  upsprings, 
Meant  merely  for  his  play  : 
No,  we  are  strangers  here ;  the  world  is  from  of  old. 

In  vain  our  pent  wills  fret, 
And  would  the  world  subdue. 
Limits  we  did  not  set 
Condition  all  we  do  ; 
Born  into  life  we  are,  and  life  must  be  our  mould. 


EMPEDOCLES  ON  ETNA.  23  I 

Born  into  life  !  man  grows 
Forth  from  his  parents'  stem, 
And  blends  their  bloods,  as  those 
Of  theirs  are  blent  in  them  ; 
So  each  new  man  strikes  root  into  a  far  fore-time. 

Born  into  life  !  we  bring 
A  bias  with  us  here, 
And,  when  here,  each  new  thing 
Affects  us  we  come  near ; 
To  tunes  we  did  not  call,  our  being  must  keep  chime. 

Born  into  life  !  in  vain, 
Opinions,  those  or  these, 
Unaltered  to  retain, 
The  obstinate  mind  decrees  : 
Experience,  like  a  sea,  soaks  all-effacing  in. 

Born  into  life  !  who  lists 
May  what  is  false  hold  dear, 
And  for  himself  make  mists 
Through  which  to  see  less  clear  : 
The  world  is  what  it  is,  for  all  our  dust  and  din. 

Born  into  life  !  'tis  we, 
And  not  the  world,  are  new ; 
Our  cry  for  bliss,  our  plea, 
Others  have  urged  it  too  : 
Our  wants  have  all  been  felt,  our  errors  made  before. 

No  eye  could  be  too  sound 
To  observe  a  world  so  vast, 
No  patience  too  profound 
To  sort  what's  here  amassed  ; 
How  man  may  here  best  live,  no  care  too  great  to 
explore. 


232  EMPEDOCLES  ON  ETNA. 

But  we,  —  as  some  rude  guest 
Would  change,  where'er  he  roam, 
The  manners  there  professed 
To  those  he  brings  from  home,  — 
We  mark  not  the  world's  course,  but  would  have  it 
take  ours. 

The  world's  course  proves  the  terms 
On  which  man  wins  content ; 
Reason  the  proof  confirms  : 
We  spurn  it,  and  invent 
A  false  course  for  the  world,  and  for  ourselves  false 
powers. 

Riches  we  wish  to  get, 
Yet  remain  spendthrifts  still ; 
We  would  have  health,  and  yet 
Still  use  our  bodies  ill ; 
Bafflers  of  our  own  prayers,  from  youth  to  life's  last 
scenes. 

We  would  have  inward  peace, 
Yet  will  not  look  within  ; 
We  would  have  misery  cease, 
Yet  will  not  cease  from  sin  ; 
We  want  all  pleasant  ends,  but  will  use  no  harsh  means ; 

We  do  not  what  we  ought ; 
What  we  ought  not,  we  do  ; 
And  lean  upon  the  thought 
That  chance  will  bring  us  through  : 
But  our  own  acts,  for  good  or  ill,  are  mightier  powers. 

Yet  even  when  man  forsakes 
All  sin,  —  is  just,  is  pure, 
Abandons  all  which  makes 
His  welfare  insecure,  — 
Other  existences  there  are,  that  clash  with  ours. 


EMPEDOCLES   ON  ETNA.  233 

Like  us,  the  lightning-fires 
Love  to  have  scope  and  play ; 
The  stream,  like  us,  desires 
An  unimpeded  way ; 
Like  us,  the  Libyan  wind  delights  to  roam  at  large. 

Streams  will  not  curb  their  pride 
The  just  man  not  to  entomb, 
Nor  lightnings  go  aside 
To  give  his  virtues  room  ; 
Nor  is  that  wind  less  rough  which  blows  a  good  man's 
barge. 

Nature,  with  equal  mind, 
Sees  all  her  sons  at  play ; 
Sees  man  control  the  wind, 
The  wind  sweep  man  away ; 
Allows  the  proudly  riding  and  the  foundering  bark. 

And,  lastly,  though  of  ours 
No  weakness  spoil  our  lot, 
Though  the  non-human  powers 
Of  nature  harm  us  not, 
The  ill  deeds  of  other  men  make  often  our  life  dark. 

What  were  the  wise  man's  plan  ? 
Through  this  sharp,  toil-set  life, 
To  fight  as  best  he  can, 
And  win  what's  won  by  strife. 
But  we  an  easier  way  to  cheat  our  pains  have  found. 

Scratched  by  a  fall,  with  moans 
As  children  of  weak  age 
Lend  life  to  the  dumb  stones 
Whereon  to  vent  their  rage, 
And   bend   their   little    fists,    and   rate   the   senseless 
ground ; 


234  EMPEDOCLES  ON  ETNA. 

So,  loath  to  suffer  mute, 
We,  peopling  the  void  air, 
Make  gods  to  whom  to  impute 
The  ills  we  ought  to  bear ; 
With  God  and  fate  to  rail  at,  suffering  easily. 

Yet  grant,  —  as  sense  long  missed 
Things  that  are  now  perceived, 
And  much  may  still  exist 
Which  is  not  yet  believed,  — 
Grant  that  the  world  were  full  of  gods  we  cannot  see ; 

All  things  the  world  which  fill 
Of  but  one  stuff  are  spun, 
That  we  who  rail  are  still, 
With  what  we  rail  at,  one  ; 
One  with    the    o'er-labored    Power  that  through  the 
breadth  and  length 

Of  earth,  and  air,  and  sea, 
In  men,  and  plants,  and  stones, 
Hath  toil  perpetually, 
And  travails,  pants,  and  moans  ; 
Fain  would  do  all  things  well,  but  sometimes  fails  in 
strength. 

And  patiently  exact 
This  universal  God 
Alike  to  any  act 
Proceeds  at  any  nod, 
And  quietly  declaims  the  cursings  of  himself. 

This  is  not  what  man  hates, 
Yet  he  can  curse  but  this. 
Harsh  gods  and  hostile  fates 
Are  dreams  !  this  only  is,  — 
Is  everywhere  ;  sustains  the  wise,  the  foolish  elf. 


EMPEDOCLES   ON  ETNA.  235 

Nor  only,  in  the  intent 
To  attach  blame  elsewhere, 
Do  we  at  will  invent 
Stern  powers  who  make  their  care 
To  imbitter  human  life,  malignant  deities ; 

But,  next,  we  would  reverse 
The  scheme  ourselves  have  spun, 
And  what  we  made  to  curse 
We  now  would  lean  upon, 
And  feign  kind  gods  who  perfect  what  man  vainly  tries. 

Look,  the  world  tempts  our  eye, 
And  we  would  know  it  all ! 
We  map  the  starry  sky, 
We  mine  this  earthen  ball, 
We  measure  the  sea-tides,  we  number  the  sea-sands ; 

We  scrutinize  the  dates 
Of  long-past  human  things, 
The  bounds  of  effaced  states, 
The  lines  of  deceased  kings ; 
We  search  out  dead  men's  words,  and  works  of  dead 
men's  hands  ; 

We  shut  our  eyes,  and  muse 
How  our  own  minds  are  made, 
What  springs  of  thought  they  use, 
How  Tightened,  how  betrayed,  — 
And  spend  our  wit  to  name  what  most  employ  unnamed. 

But  still,  as  we  proceed, 
The  mass  swells  more  and  more 
Of  volumes  yet  to  read, 
Of  secrets  yet  to  explore. 
Our  hair  grows  gray,  our  eyes  are  dimmed,  our  heat 
is  tamed ; 


2 $6  EMPEDOCLES  '  ON  E  TNA. 

We  rest  our  faculties, 
And  thus  address  the  gods  : 
"  True  science  if  there  is, 
It  stays  in  your  abodes  ! 
Man's  measures  cannot  mete  the  immeasurable  all. 

"  You  only  can  take  in 
The  world's  immense  design  ; 
Our  desperate  search  was  sin, 
Which  henceforth  we  resign, 
Sure  only  that  your  mind  sees  all  things  which  befall." 

Fools  !     That  in  man's  brief  term 
He  cannot  all  things  view, 
Affords  no  ground  to  affirm 
That  there  are  gods  who  do  ; 
Nor  does  being  weary  prove  that  he  has  where  to  rest. 

Again  :  Our  youthful  blood 
Claims  rapture  as  its  right ; 
The  world,  a  rolling  flood 
Of  newness  and  delight, 
Draws  in  the  enamoured  gazer  to  its  shining  breast ; 

Pleasure,  to  our  hot  grasp, 
Gives  flowers  after  flowers  ; 
With  passionate  warmth  we  clasp 
Hand  after  hand  in  ours  ; 
Now  do  we  soon  perceive  how  fast  our  youth  is  spent. 

At  once  our  eyes  grow  clear  ! 
We  see,  in  blank  dismay, 
Year  posting  after  year, 
Sense  after  sense  decay  ; 
Our  shivering  heart  is  mined  by  secret  discontent. 


EMPEDOCLES  ON  ETNA.  237 

Yet  still,  in  spite  of  truth, 
In  spite  of  hopes  entombed, 
That  longing  of  our  youth 
Burns  ever  unconsumed, 
Still  hungrier  for  delight  as  delights  grow  more  rare. 

We  pause  ;  we  hush  our  heart, 
And  thus  address  the  gods  :  — 
"  The  world  hath  failed  to  impart 
The  joy  our  youth  forebodes, 
Failed  to  fill  up  the  void  which  in  our  breasts  we  bear. 

"  Changeful  till  now,  we  still 
Looked  on  to  something  new ; 
Let  us,  with  changeless  will, 
Henceforth  look  on  to  you, 
To  find  with  you  the  joy  we  in  vain  here  require  !  " 

Fools  !     That  so  often  here 
Happiness  mocked  our  prayer, 
I  think,  might  make  us  fear 
A  like  event  elsewhere  ; 
Make  us  not  fly  to  dreams,  but  moderate  desire. 

And  yet,  for  those  who  know 
Themselves,  who  wisely  take 
Their  way  through  life,  and  bow 
To  what  they  cannot  break, 
Why  should  I  say  that  life  need  yield  but  moderate 
bliss  ? 

Shall  we,  with  temper  spoiled, 
Health  sapped  by  living  ill, 
And  judgment  all  embroiled 
By  sadness  and  self-will,  — 
Shall  we  judge  what  for  man  is  not  true  bliss  or  is? 


238  EMPEDOCLES   ON  ETNA. 

Is  it  so  small  a  thing 
To  have  enjoyed  the  sun, 
To  have  lived  light  in  the  spring, 
To  have  loved,  to  have  thought,  to  have  done 
To  have  advanced  true  friends,  and  beat  down  baffling 
foes,  — 

That  we  must  feign  a  bliss 
Of  doubtful  future  date, 
And.  while  we  dream  on  this, 
Lose  all  our  present  state, 
And  relegate  to  worlds  yet  distant  our  repose  ? 

Not  much,  I  know,  you  prize 
What  pleasures  may  be  had, 
Who  look  on  life  with  eyes 
Estranged,  like  mine,  and  sad ; 
And  yet  the  village-churl  feels  the  truth  more  than  you  ; 

Who's  loath  to  leave  this  life 

Which  to  him  little  yields,  —  ♦ 

His  hard-tasked  sunburnt  wife, 
His  often-labored  fields, 
The  boors  with  whom  he  talked,  the  country-spots  he 
knew. 

But  thou,  because  thou  hear'st 
Men  scoff  at  heaven  and  fate, 
Because  the  gods  thou  fear'st 
Fail  to  make  blest  thy  state, 
Tremblest,  and  wilt  not  dare  to  trust  the  joys  there  are  ! 

I  say  :  Fear  not  !     Life  still 
Leaves  human  effort  scope. 
But,  since  life  teems  with  ill, 
Nurse  no  extravagant  hope  ; 
Because  thou  must  not  dream,  thou  need'st  not  then 
despair  ! 


EMPEDOCLES   ON  ETNA.  239 

A  long  pause.     At  the  end  of  it  the  notes  of  a  harp  below  are 
again  heard,  and  Callicles  sings:  — 

Far,  far  from  here, 

The  Adriatic  breaks  in  a  warm  bay 

Among  the  green  Illyrian  hills ;  and  there 

The  sunshine  in  the  happy  glens  is  fair, 

And  by  the  sea,  and  in  the  brakes. 

The  grass  is  cool,  the  sea-side  air 

Buoyant  and  fresh,  the  mountain  flowers 

More  virginal  and  sweet  than  ours. 

And  there,  they  say,  two  bright  and  aged  snakes, 

Who  once  were  Cadmus  and  Harmonia, 

Bask  in  the  glens  or  on  the  warm  seashore, 

In  breathless  quiet,  after  all  their  ills ; 

Nor  do  they  see  their  country,  nor  the  place 

Where  the  Sphinx  lived  among  the  frowning  hills, 

Nor  the  unhappy  palace  of  their  race, 

Nor  Thebes,  nor  the  Ismenus,  any  more. 

There  those  two  live,  far  in  the  Illyrian  brakes  ! 

They  had  stayed  long  enough  to  see, 

In  Thebes,  the  billow  of  calamity 

Over  their  own  dear  children  rolled, 

Curse  upon  curse,  pang  upon  pang, 

For  years,  they  sitting  helpless  in  their  home, 

A  gray  old  man  and  woman  ;  yet  of  old 

The  gods  had  to  their  marriage  come, 

And  at  the  banquet  all  the  Muses  sang. 

Therefore  they  did  not  end  their  days 

In  sight  of  blood ;  but  were  rapt,  far  away, 

To  where  the  west-wind  plays, 

And  murmurs  of  the  Adriatic  come 

To  those  untrodden  mountain  lawns ;  and  there 

Placed  safely  in  changed  forms,  the  pait 


24O  EMPEDOCLRS  ON  ETNA. 

Wholly  forget  their  first  sad  life,  and  home, 
And  all  that  Theban  woe,  and  stray 
Forever  through  the  glens,  placid  and  dumb. 

EMPEDOCLES. 

That  was  my  harp-player  again  !     Where  is  he  ? 
Down  by  the  stream  ? 

PAUSANIAS. 

Yes,  master,  in  the  wood. 

EMPEDOCLES. 

He  ever  loved  the  Theban  story  well ! 
But  the  day  wears.     Go  now,  Pausanias, 
For  I  must  be  alone.     Leave  me  one  mule ; 
Take  down  with  thee  the  rest  to  Catana. 
And  for  young  Callicles,  thank  him  from  me  ; 
Tell  him,  I  never  failed  to  love  his  lyre ; 
But  he  must  follow  me  no  more  to-night. 

PAUSANIAS. 

Thou  wilt  return  to-morrow  to  the  city  ? 

EMPEDOCLES. 

Either  to-morrow  or  some  other  day, 

In  the  sure  revolutions  of  the  world, 

Good  friend,  I  shall  revisit  Catana. 

I  have  seen  many  cities  in  my  time, 

Till  mine  eyes  ache  with  the  long  spectacle, 

And  I  shall  doubtless  see  them  all  again  ; 

Thou  know'st  me  for  a  wanderer  from  of  old. 

Meanwhile,  stay  me  not  now.     Farewell,  Pausanias  ! 

IE'  departs  on  his  way  up  the  mountain 

pausanias  {alone). 
I  dare  not  urge  him  further  —  he  must  go  ; 
But  he  is  strangely  wrought  !     I  will  speed  back, 


EMPEDOCLES   ON  ETNA.  2\\ 

And  bring  Peisianax  to  him  from  the  city ; 

His  counsel  could  once  soothe  him.     But,  Apollo  ! 

How  his  brow  lightened  as  the  music  rose  ! 

Callicles  must  wait  here,  and  play  to  him ; 

I  saw  him  through  the  chestnuts  far  below, 

Just  since,  down  at  the  stream.  —  Ho  !  Callicles  ! 

He  descends,  calling. 


ACT    II. 

Evening.     The  Summit  of  Etna. 
EMPEDOCLES. 

Alone  ! 
On  this  charred,  blackened,  melancholy  waste, 
Crowned  by  the  awful  peak,  Etna's  great  mouth, 
Round  which  the  sullen  vapor  rolls,  —  alone  ! 
Pausanias  is  far  hence,  and  that  is  well, 
For  I  must  henceforth  speak  no  more  with  man. 
He  has  his  lesson  too,  and  that  debt's  paid ; 
And  the  good,  learned,  friendly,  quiet  man, 
May  bravelier  front  his  life,  and  in  himself 
Find  henceforth  energy  and  heart.     But  I,  — 
The  weary  man,  the  banished  citizen, 
Whose  banishment  is  not  his  greatest  ill, 
Whose  weariness  no  energy  can  reach, 
And  for  whose  hurt  courage  is  not  the  cure,  — 
What  should  I  do  with  life  and  living  more  ? 

No,  thou  art  come  too  late,  Empedocles  ! 
And  the  world  hath  the  day,  and  must  break  thee, 
Not  thou  the  world.     With  men  thou  canst  not  live  : 
Their  thoughts,  their  ways,  their  wishes,  are  not  thine. 
And  being  lonely  thou  art  miserable  ; 


242  EMPEDOCLES  ON  ETNA. 

For  something  has  impaired  thy  spirit's  strength, 

And  dried  its  self-sufficing  fount  of  joy. 

Thou  canst  not  live  with  men  nor  with  thyself, 

O  sage  !     O  sage  !     Take,  then,  the  one  way  left ; 

And  turn  thee  to  the  elements,  thy  friends, 

Thy  well-tried  friends,  thy  willing  ministers, 

And  say  :  Ye  servants,  hear  Empedocles, 

Who  asks  this  final  service  at  your  hands  ! 

Before  the  sophist-brood  hath  overlaid 

The  last  spark  of  man's  consciousness  with  words ; 

Ere  quite  the  being  of  man,  ere  quite  the  world, 

Be  disarrayed  of  their  divinity ; 

Before  the  soul  lose  all  her  solemn  joys, 

And  awe  be  dead,  and  hope  impossible, 

And  the  soul's  deep  eternal  night  come  on,  — 

Receive  me,  hide  me,  quench  me,  take  me  home  ! 

He  advances  to  the  edge  of  the  crater.  Smoke  and  fire 
break  forth  with  a  loud  noise,  and  Callicles  is 
heard  below  singing :  — 

The  lyre's  voice  is  lovely  everywhere  ; 
In  the  court  of  gods,  in  the  city  of  men, 
And  in  the  lonely  rock-strewn  mountain-glen, 
In  the  still  mountain  air. 

Only  to  Typho  it  sounds  hatefully,  — 

To  Typho  only,  the  rebel  o'erthrown, 

Through  whose  heart  Etna  drives  her  roots  of  stone, 

To  embed  them  in  the  sea. 

Wherefore  dost  thou  groan  so  loud? 

Wherefore  do  thy  nostrils  flash, 

Through  the  dark  night,  suddenly, 

Typho,  such  red  jets  of  flame? 

Is  thy  tortured  heart  still  proud  ? 

Is  thy  fire-scathed  arm  still  rash? 


EMPEDOCLES   ON  ETNA.  243 

* 

Still  alert  thy  stone-crushed  frame  ? 

Doth  thy  fierce  soul  still  deplore 

Thine  ancient  rout  by  the  Cilician  hills, 

And  that  curst  treachery  on  the  Mount  of  Gore  ? 1 

Do  thy  bloodshot  eyes  still  weep 

The  fight  which  crowned  thine  ills, 

Thy  last  mischance  on  this  Sicilian  deep  ? 

Hast  thou  sworn,  in  thy  sad  lair, 

Where  erst  the  strong  sea-currents  sucked  thee  down, 

Never  to  cease  to  writhe,  and  try  to  rest, 

Letting  the  sea-stream  wander  through  thy  hair  ? 

That  thy  groans,  like  thunder  prest, 

Begin  to  roll,  and  almost  drown 

The  sweet  notes  whose  lulling  spell 

Gods  and  the  race  of  mortals  love  so  well, 

When  through  thy  caves  thou  hearest  music  swell  ? 

But  an  awful  pleasure  bland 

Spreading  o'er  the  Thunderer's  face, 

When  the  sound  climbs  near  his  seat, 

The  Olympian  council  sees  ; 

As  he  lets  his  lax  right  hand, 

Which  the  lightnings  doth  embrace, 

Sink  upon  his  mighty  knees. 

And  the  eagle,  at  the  beck 

Of  the  appeasing,  gracious  harmony, 

Droops  all  his  sheeny,  brown,  deep-feathered  neck, 

Nestling  nearer  to  Jove's  feet ; 

While  o'er  his  sovran  eye 

The  curtains  of  the  blue  films  slowly  meet. 

And  the  white  Olympus-peaks 

Rosily  brighten,  and  the  soothed  gods  smile 

At  one  another  from  their  golden  chairs, 

And  no  one  round  the  charmed  circle  speaks. 

1  Mount  Haemus.    See  Apollodorus,  Bibliotheca,  book  i.  chapter  6. 


244  EMPEDOCLES  ON  ETNA. 

Only  the  loved  Hebe  bears 

The  cup  about,  whose  draughts  beguile 

Pain  and  care,  with  a  dark  store 

Of  fresh-pulled  violets  wreathed  and  nodding  o'er ; 

And  her  flushed  feet  glow  on  the  marble  floor. 

EMPEDOCLES. 

He  fables,  yet  speaks  truth  ! 

The  brave  impetuous  heart  yields  everywhere 

To  the  subtle,  contriving  head  ; 

Great  qualities  are  trodden  down, 

And  littleness  united 

Is  become  invincible. 

These  rumblings  are  not  Typho's  groans,  I  know  ! 

These  angry  smoke-bursts 

Are  not  the  passionate  breath 

Of  the  mountain-crushed,  tortured,  intractable  Titan 

king ; 
But  over  all  the  world 
What  suffering  is  there  not  seen 
Of  plainness  oppressed  by  cunning, 
As  the  well-counselled  Zeus  oppressed 
That  self-helping  son  of  earth  ! 
What  anguish  of  greatness, 
Railed  and  hunted  from  the  world, 
Because  its  simplicity  rebukes 
This  envious,  miserable  age  ! 

I  am  weary  of  it. 

—  Lie  there,  ye  ensigns 

Of  my  unloved  pre-eminence 

In  an  age  like  this  ! 

Among  a  people  of  children, 

Who  thronged  me  in  their  cities, 


EMPEDOCLES   ON  ETNA.  245 

Who  worshipped  me  in  their  houses, 

And  asked,  not  wisdom, 

But  drugs  to  charm  with, 

But  spells  to  mutter 

All  the  fool's-armory  of  magic  !     Lie  there, 

My  golden  circlet, 

My  purple  robe  ! 

callicles  {from  below). 
As  the  sky-brightening  south-wind  clears  the  day, 
And  makes  the  massed  clouds  roll, 
The  music  of  the  lyre  blows  away 
The  clouds  which  wrap  the  soul. 

Oh  that  fate  had  let  me  see 

That  triumph  of  the  sweet  persuasive  lyre, 

That  famous,  final  victory 

When  jealous  Pan  with  Marsyas  did  conspire  ! 

When,  from  far  Parnassus'  side, 
Young  Apollo,  all  the  pride 
Of  the  Phrygian  flutes  to  tame, 
To  the  Phrygian  highlands  came  ; 
Where  the  long  green  reed-beds  sway 
In  the  rippled  waters  gray 
Of  that  solitary  lake 
Where  Meander's  springs  are  born ; 
Where  the  ridged  pine-wooded  roots 
Of  Messogis  westward  break, 
Mounting  westward,  high  and  higher. 
There  was  held  the  famous  strife  ; 
There  the  Phrygian  brought  his  flutes, 
And  Apollo  brought  his  lyre  ; 
And,  when  now  the  westering  sun 
Touched  the  hills,  the  strife  was  done, 


246  EMPEDOCLES  ON  ETNA. 

And  the  attentive  muses  said,  — 

"  Marsyas,  thou  art  vanquished  !  " 

Then  Apollo's  minister 

Hanged  upon  a  branching  fir 

Marsyas,  that  unhappy  Faun, 

And  began  to  whet  his  knife. 

But  the  Maenads,  who  were  there, 

Left  their  friend,  and  with  robes  flowing 

In  the  wind,  and  loose  dark  hair 

O'er  their  polished  bosoms  blowing, 

Each  her  ribboned  tambourine 

Flinging  on  the  mountain-sod, 

With  a  lovely  frightened  mien 

Came  about  the  youthful  god. 

But  he  turned  his  beauteous  face 

Haughtily  another  way, 

From  the  grassy  sun-warmed  place 

Where  in  proud  repose  he  lay, 

With  one  arm  over  his  head, 

Watching  how  the  whetting  sped. 

But  aloof,  on  the  lake-strand, 

Did  the  young  Olympus  stand, 

Weeping  at  his  master's  end  ; 

For  the  Faun  had  been  his  friend. 

For  he  taught  him  how  to  sing, 

And  he  taught  him  flute-playing. 

Many  a  morning  had  they  gone 

To  the  glimmering  mountain  lakes, 

And  had  torn  up  by  the  roots 

The  tall  crested  water-reeds 

With  long  plumes  and  soft  brown  seeds, 

And  had  carved  them  into  flutes, 

Sitting  on  a  tabled  stone 


EMPEDOCLES  OX  ETNA.  247 

Where  the  shoreward  ripple  breaks. 

And  he  taught  him  how  to  please 

The  red-snooded  Phrygian  girls, 

Whom  the  summer  evening  sees 

Flashing  in  the  dance's  whirls 

Underneath  the  starlit  trees 

In  the  mountain  villages. 

Therefore  now  Olympus  stands, 

At  his  master's  piteous  cries 

Pressing  fast  with  both  his  hands 

His  white  garment  to  his  eyes, 

Not  to  see  Apollo's  scorn.  — 

Ah,  poor  Faun,  poor  Faun  !  ah,  poor  Faun  ! 

EMPEDOCLES. 

And  lie  thou  there, 

My  laurel  bough  ! 

Scornful  Apollo's  ensign,  lie  thou  there  ! 

Though  thou  hast  been  my  shade  in  the  world's  heat, 

Though  I  have  loved  thee,  lived  in  honoring  thee, 

Yet  lie  thou  there, 

My  laurel  bough  ! 

I  am  weary  of  thee. 

I  am  weary  of  the  solitude 

Where  he  who  bears  thee  must  abide,  — 

Of  the  rocks  of  Parnassus, 

Of  the  gorge  of  Delphi, 

Of  the  moonlight  peaks,  and  the  caves. 

Thou  guardest  them,  Apollo  ! 

Over  the  grave  of  the  slain  Pytho, 

Though  young,  intolerably  severe  ! 

Thou  keepest  aloof  the  profane, 

But  the  solitude  oppresses  thy  votary. 

The  jars  of  men  reach  him  not  in  thy  valley, 


248  EMPEDOCLES  ON  ETNA. 

But  can  life  reach  him? 

Thou  fencest  him  from  the  multitude  : 

Who  will  fence  him  from  himself? 

He  hears  nothing  but  the  cry  of  the  torrents, 

And  the  beating  of  his  own  heart ; 

The  air  is  thin,  the  veins  swell, 

The  temples  tighten  and  throb  there  — 

Air  !  air  ! 

Take  thy  bough,  set  me  free  from  my  solitude ; 
I  have  been  enough  alone  ! 

Where  shall  thy  votary  fly,  then  ?  back  to  men  ? 

But  they  will  gladly  welcome  him  once  more, 

And  help  him  to  unbend  his  too  tense  thought, 

And  rid  him  of  the  presence  of  himself, 

And  keep  their  friendly  chatter  at  his  ear, 

And  haunt  him,  till  the  absence  from  himself, 

That  other  torment,  grow  unbearable  ; 

And  he  will  fly  to  solitude  again, 

And  he  will  find  its  air  too  keen  for  him, 

And  so  change  back  ;  and  many  thousand  times 

Be  miserably  bandied  to  and  fro 

Like  a  sea-wave,  betwixt  the  world  and  thee, 

Thou  young,  implacable  god  !  and  only  death 

Shall  cut  his  oscillations  short,  and  so 

Bring  him  to  poise.     There  is  no  other  way. 

And  yet  what  days  were  those,  Parmenides  ! 

When  we  were  young,  when  we  could  number  friends 

In  all  the  Italian  cities  like  ourselves ; 

When  with  elated  hearts  we  joined  your  train, 

Ye  Sun-born  Virgins  !  on  the  road  of  truth.16 

Then  we  could  still  enjoy,  then  neither  thought 

Nor  outward  things  were  closed  and  dead  to  us ; 

But  we  received  the  shock  of  mighty  thoughts 


EMPEDOCLES  ON  ETNA.  249 

On  simple  minds  with  a  pure  natural  joy ; 

And  if  the  sacred  load  oppressed  our  brain, 

We  had  the  power  to  feel  the  pressure  eased, 

The  brow  unbound,  the  thoughts  flow  free  again, 

In  the  delightful  commerce  of  the  world. 

We  had  not  lost  our  balance  then,  nor  grown 

Thought's  slaves,  and  dead  to  every  natural  joy. 

The  smallest  thing  could  give  us  pleasure  then,  — 

The  sports  of  the  country-people, 

A  flute-note  from  the  woods, 

Sunset  over  the  sea ; 

Seed-time  and  harvest, 

The  reapers  in  the  corn, 

The  vinedresser  in  his  vineyard, 

The  village-girl  at  her  wheel. 

Fulness  of  life  and  power  of  feeling,  ye 

Are  for  the  happy,  for  the  souls  at  ease, 

Who  dwell  on  a  firm  basis  of  content ! 

But  he  who  has  outlived  his  prosperous  days ; 

But  he  whose  youth  fell  on  a  different  world 

From  that  on  which  his  exiled  age  is  thrown,  — 

Whose  mind  was  fed  on  other  food,  was  trained 

By  other  rules  than  are  in  vogue  to-day ; 

Whose  habit  of  thought  is  fixed,  who  will  not  change, 

But,  in  a  world  he  loves  not,  must  subsist 

In  ceaseless  opposition,  be  the  guard 

Of  his  own  breast,  fettered  to  what  he  guards, 

That  the  world  win  no  mastery  over  him  ; 

Who  has  no  friend,  no  fellow  left,  not  one ; 

Who  has  no  minute's  breathing-space  allowed 

To  nurse  his  dwindling  faculty  of  joy,  — 

Joy  and  the  outward  world  must  die  to  him, 

As  they  are  dead  to  me. 


2  50  EMPEDOCLES  ON  ETNA. 

A  long  pause,  during  which  EMPEDOCLES  remains  mo- 
tionless, plunged  in  thought.  The  night  deepens. 
He  moves  forward,  and  gazes  around  him,  and  pro- 
ceeds :  — 

And  you,  ye  stars, 

Who  slowly  begin  to  marshal, 

As  of  old,  in  the  fields  of  heaven, 

Your  distant,  melancholy  lines  ! 

Have  you,  too,  survived  yourselves? 

Are  you,  too,  what  I  fear  to  become  ? 

You  too  once  lived  ; 

You  too  moved  joyfully, 

Among  august  companions, 

In  an  older  world,  peopled  by  gods, 

In  a  mightier  order, 

The  radiant,  rejoicing,  intelligent  sons  of  heaven. 

But  now  ye  kindle 

Your  lonely,  cold-shining  lights, 

Unwilling  lingerers 

In  the  heavenly  wilderness, 

For  a  younger,  ignoble  world ; 

And  renew,  by  necessity, 

Night  after  night  your  courses, 

In  echoing,  unneared  silence, 

Above  a  race  you  know  not, 

Uncaring  and  undelighted, 

Without  friend  and  without  home  ; 

Weary  like  us,  though  not 

Weary  with  our  weariness. 

No,  no,  ye  stars  !  there  is  no  death  with  you, 
No  languor,  no  decay  !  languor  and  death, 
They  are  with  me,  not  you  !  ye  are  alive,  — 
Ye,  and  the  pure  dark  ether  where  ye  ride 


EM r EDO CLES  ON  E TATA .  2 5  I 

Brilliant  above  me  !     And  thou,  fiery  world, 

That  sapp'st  the  vitals  of  this  terrible  mount 

Upon  whose  charred  and  quaking  crust  I  stand,  — 

Thou,  too,  brimmest  with  life  !  the  sea  of  cloud, 

That  heaves  its  white  and  billowy  vapors  up 

To  moat  this  isle  of  ashes  from  the  world, 

Lives ;  and  that  other  fainter  sea,  far  down, 

O'er  whose  lit  floor  a  road  of  moonbeams  leads 

To  Etna's  Liparean  sister-fires 

And  the  long  dusky  line  of  Italy,  — 

That  mild  and  luminous  floor  of  waters  lives, 

With  held-in  joy  swelling  its  heart :  I  only, 

Whose  spring  of  hope  is  dried,  whose  spirit  has  failed, 

I,  who  have  not,  like  these,  in  solitude 

Maintained  courage  and  force,  and  in  myself 

Nursed  an  immortal  vigor,  —  I  alone 

Am  dead  to  life  and  joy,  therefore  I  read 

In  all  things  my  own  deadness. 

A  long  silence.     He  continues :  — 
Oh  that  I  could  glow  like  this  mountain  ! 
Oh  that  my  heart  bounded  with  the  swell  of  the  sea  ! 
Oh  that  my  soul  were  full  of  light  as  the  stars  ! 
Oh  that  it  brooded  over  the  world  like  the  air  ! 


But  no,  this  heart  will  glow  no  more  ;  thou  art 
A  living  man  no  more,  Empedocles  ! 
Nothing  but  a  devouring  flame  of  thought,  — 
But  a  naked,  eternally  restless  mind  ! 

After  a  pause :  — 
To  the  elements  it  came  from, 
Every  thing  will  return,  — 
Our  bodies  to  earth, 
Our  blood  to  water, 


252  EMPEDOCLES  ON  ETNA. 

Heat  to  fire, 

Breath  to  air  : 

They  were  well  born,  they  will  be  well  entombed. 

But  mind?  .  .  . 

And  we  might  gladly  share  the  fruitful  stir 

Down  in  our  mother  earth's  miraculous  womb  ; 

Well  would  it  be 

With  what  rolled  of  us  in  the  stormy  main ; 

We  might  have  joy,  blent  with  the  all-bathing  air, 

Or  with  the  nimble,  radiant  life  of  fire. 

But  mind,  but  thought, 

If  these  have  been  the  master  part  of  us,  — 

Where  will  they  find  their  parent  element? 

What  will  receive  them,  who  will  call  them  home  ? 

But  we  shall  still  be  in  them,  and  they  in  us ; 

And  we  shall  be  the  strangers  of  the  world ; 

And  they  will  be  our  lords,  as  they  are  now, 

And  keep  us  prisoners  of  our  consciousness, 

And  never  let  us  clasp  and  feel  the  All 

But  through  their  forms,  and  modes,  and  stifling  veils. 

And  we  shall  be  unsatisfied  as  now ; 

And  we  shall  feel  the  agony  of  thirst, 

The  ineffable  longing  for  the  life  of  life 

Baffled  forever ;  and  still  thought  and  mind 

Will  hurry  us  with  them  on  their  homeless  march 

Over  the  unallied  unopening  earth, 

Over  the  unrecognizing  sea ;  while  air 

Will  blow  us  fiercely  back  to  sea  and  earth, 

And  fire  repel  us  from  its  living  waves. 

And  then  we  shall  unwillingly  return 

Back  to  this  meadow  of  calamity, 

This  uncongenial  place,  this  human  life  : 


EMPEDOCLES  ON  ETNA.  253 

And  in  our  individual  human  state 

Go  through  the  sad  probation  all  again, 

To  see  if  we  will  poise  our  life  at  last, 

To  see  if  we  will  now  at  last  be  true 

To  our  own  only  true,  deep-buried  selves, 

Being  one  with  which,  we  are  one  with  the  whole  world  ; 

Or  whether  we  will  once  more  fall  away 

Into  the  bondage  of  the  flesh  or  mind, 

Some  slough  of  sense,  or  some  fantastic  maze 

Forged  by  the  imperious  lonely  thinking-power. 

And  each  succeeding  age  in  which  we  are  born 

Will  have  more  peril  for  us  than  the  last ; 

Will  goad  our  senses  with  a  sharper  spur, 

Will  fret  our  minds  to  an  intenser  play, 

Will  make  ourselves  harder  to  be  discerned. 

And  we  shall  struggle  a  while,  gasp  and  rebel ; 

And  we  shall  fly  for  refuge  to  past  times, 

Their  soul  of  unworn  youth,  their  breath  of  greatness ; 

And  the  reality  will  pluck  us  back, 

Knead  us  in  its  hot  hand,  and  change  our  nature. 

And  we  shall  feel  our  powers  of  effort  flag, 

And  rally  them  for  one  last  fight  —  and  fail ; 

And  we  shall  sink  in  the  impossible  strife, 

And  be  astray  forever. 

Slave  of  sense 
I  have  in  no  wise  been ;  but  slave  of  thought? 
And  who  can  say  :  I  have  been  always  free, 
Lived  ever  in  the  light  of  my  own  soul  ? 
I  cannot ;  I  have  lived  in  wrath  and  gloom, 
Fierce,  disputatious,  ever  at  war  with  man, 
Far  from  my  own  soul,  far  from  warmth  and  light ; 
But  I  have  not  grown  easy  in  these  bonds, 
But  I  have  not  denied  what  bonds  these  were. 
Yea,  I  take  myself  to  witness, 


254  EMPEDOCLES  ON  ETNA. 

That  I  have  loved  no  darkness, 
Sophisticated  no  truth. 
Nursed  no  delusion, 
Allowed  no  fear  ! 

And  therefore,  O  ye  elements  !  I  know  — 
Ye  know  it  too  —  it  hath  been  granted  me 
Not  to  die  wholly,  not  to  be  all  enslaved. 
I  feel  it  in  this  hour.     The  numbing  cloud 
Mounts  off  my  soul ;  I  feel  it,  I  breathe  free. 

Is  it  but  for  a  moment  ? 
—  Ah,  boil  up,  ye  vapors  ! 
Leap  and  roar,  thou  sea  of  fire  ! 
My  soul  glows  to  meet  you. 
Ere  it  flag,  ere  the  mists 
Of  despondency  and  gloom 
Rush  over  it  again, 
Receive  me,  save  me  ! 

{He  plunges  into  the  crater. 

CALLICLES  {from  below). 

Through  the  black,  rushing  smoke-bursts, 
Thick  breaks  the  red  flame  ; 
All  Etna  heaves  fiercely 
Her  forest-clothed  frame. 

Not  here,  O  Apollo  ! 
Are  haunts  meet  for  thee  ; 
But  where  Helicon  breaks  down 
In  cliff  to  the  sea,  — 

Where  the  moon-silvered  inlets 
Send  far  their  light  voice 
Up  the  still  vale  of  Thisbe,  — - 
Oh,  speed,  and  rejoice  ! 


EMPEDOCLES  ON  ETNA.  255 

On  the  sward  at  the  cliff-top 
Lie  strewn  the  white  flocks  : 
On  the  cliff-side  the  pigeons 
Roost  deep  in  the  rocks. 

In  the  moonlight  the  shepherds, 
Soft  lulled  by  the  rills, 
Lie  wrapped  in  their  blankets 
Asleep  on  the  hills. 

—  What  forms  are  these  coming 
So  white  through  the  gloom? 
What  garments  out-glistening 
The  gold-flowered  broom? 

What  sweet-breathing  presence 
Out-perfumes  the  thyme  ? 
What  voices  enrapture 
The  night's  balmy  prime  ? 

'Tis  Apollo  comes  leading 
His  choir,  the  Nine. 
The  leader  is  fairest, 
But  all  are  divine. 

They  are  lost  in  the  hollows  ! 
They  stream  up  again  ! 
What  seeks  on  this  mountain 
The  glorified  train  ? 

They  bathe  on  this  mountain, 
In  the  spring  by  their  road  ; 
Then  on  to  Olympus, 
Their  endless  abode. 

— Whose  praise  do  they  mention? 
Of  what  is  it  told? 
What  will  be  forever, 
What  was  from  of  old. 


256      BACCHANALIA;    OR,    THE   NEW  AGE. 

First  hymn  they  the  Father 
Of  all  things  ;  and  then, 
The  rest  of  immortals, 
The  action  of  men. 

The  day  in  his  hotness, 
The  strife  with  the  palm  ; 
The  night  in  her  silence, 
The  stars  in  their  calm. 


BACCHANALIA;    OR,    THE  NEW  AGE. 

I. 

The  evening  comes,  the  fields  are  still. 
The  tinkle  of  the  thirsty  rill, 
Unheard  all  day,  ascends  again  ; 
Deserted  is  the  half-mown  plain, 
Silent  the  swaths ;  the  ringing  wain, 
The  mower's  cry,  the  dog's  alarms, 
All  housed  within  the  sleeping  farms. 
The  business  of  the  day  is  done, 
The  last-left  haymaker  is  gone. 
And  from  the  thyme  upon  the  height, 
And  from  the  elder-blossom  white 
And  pale  dog-roses  in  the  hedge, 
And  from  the  mint-plant  in  the  sedge, 
In  puffs  of  balm  the  night-air  blows 
The  perfume  which  the  day  foregoes. 
And  on  the  pure  horizon  far, 
See,  pulsing  with  the  first-born  star, 
The  liquid  sky  above  the  hill  ! 
The  evening  comes,  the  fields  are  still. 


BACCHANALIA ;     OR,    THE   NEW  AGE.      2 $7 

Loitering  and  leaping, 
With  saunter,  with  bounds, 
Flickering  and  circling 
In  files  and  in  rounds, 
Gayly  their  pine-staff  green 
Tossing  in  air, 

Loose  o'er  their  shoulders  white 
Showering  their  hair, 
See  !  the  wild  Maenads 
Break  from  the  wood, 
Youth  and  Iacchus 
Maddening  their  blood. 
See  !  through  the  quiet  land 
Rioting  they  pass, 
Fling  the  fresh  heaps  about, 
Trample  the  grass, 
Tear  from  the  rifled  hedge 
Garlands,  their  prize ; 
Fill  with  their  sports  the  field, 
Fill  with  their  cries. 

Shepherd,  what  ails  thee,  then  ? 

Shepherd,  why  mute  ? 

Forth  with  thy  joyous  song  ! 

Forth  with  thy  flute  ! 

Tempts  not  the  revel  blithe  ? 

Lure  not  their  cries  ? 

Glow  not  their  shoulders  smooth? 

Melt  not  their  eyes? 

Is  not,  on  cheeks  like  those, 

Lovely  the  flush  ? 

—  Ah  /  so  the  quiet  was  I 

So  was  the  hush  ! 


258      BACCHANALIA;     OR,    THE   NEW  AGE. 


II. 


The  epoch  ends,  the  world  is  still. 

The  age  has  talked  and  worked  its  fill. 

The  famous  orators  have  shone, 

The  famous  poets  sung  and  gone, 

The  famous  men  of  war  have  fought, 

The  famous  speculators  thought, 

The  famous  players,  sculptors,  wrought, 

The  famous  painters  filled  their  wall, 

The  famous  critics  judged  it  all. 

The  combatants  are  parted  now ; 

Uphung  the  spear,  unbent  the  bow, 

The  puissant  crowned,  the  weak  laid  low. 

And  in  the  after-silence  sweet, 

Now  strifes  are  hushed,  our  ears  doth  meet, 

Ascending  pure,  the  bell-like  fame 

Of  this  or  that  down-trodden  name, 

Delicate  spirits,  pushed  away 

In  the  hot  press  of  the  noonday. 

And  o'er  the  plain,  where  the  dead  age 

Did  its  now-silent  warfare  wage,  — 

O'er  that  wide  plain,  now  wrapped  in  gloom, 

Where  many  a  splendor  finds  its  tomb, 

Many  spent  fames  and  fallen  nights  — 

The  one  or  two  immortal  lights 

Rise  slowly  up  into  the  sky, 

To  shine  there  everlastingly, 

Like  stars  over  the  bounding  hill. 

The  epoch  ends,  the  world  is  still. 

Thundering  and  bursting 
In  torrents,  in  waves, 
Carolling  and  shouting 


BACCHANALIA;    OR,    THE  NEW  AGE.      259 

Over  tombs,  amid  graves, 

See  !  on  the  cumbered  plain 

Clearing  a  stage, 

Scattering  the  past  about, 

Comes  the  new  age. 

Bards  make  new  poems, 

Thinkers  new  schools, 

Statesmen  new  systems, 

Critics  new  rules. 

All  things  begin  again ; 

Life  is  their  prize  ; 

Earth  with  their  deeds  they  fill, 

Fill  with  their  cries. 

Poet,  what  ails  thee,  then  ? 

Say,  why  so  mute? 

Forth  with  thy  praising  voice  ! 

Forth  with  thy  flute  ! 

Loiterer  !  why  sittest  thou 

Sunk  in  thy  dream? 

Tempts  not  the  bright  new  age  ? 

Shines  not  its  stream? 

Look,  ah  !  what  genius, 

Art,  science,  wit ! 

Soldiers  like  Caesar, 

Statesmen  like  Pitt  ! 

Sculptors  like  Phidias, 

Raphaels  in  shoals, 

Poets  like  Shakspeare, — 

Beautiful  souls  ! 

See,  on  their  glowing  cheeks 

Heavenly  the  flush  ! 

—  Ah  !  so  the  silence  was  / 

So  was  the  hush  / 


260     EPILOGUE    TO  LESSING'S  LAOCOON. 

The  world  but  feels  the  present's  spell : 
The  poet  feels  the  past  as  well ; 
Whatever  men  have  done,  might  do, 
Whatever  thought,  might  think  it  too. 


EPILOGUE   TO  LESSING'S  LAOCOON. 

One  morn  as  through  Hyde  Park  we  walked, 

My  friend  and  I,  by  chance  we  talked 

Of  Lessing's  famed  Laocoon  ; 

And  after  we  a  while  had  gone 

In  Lessing's  track,  and  tried  to  see 

What  painting  is,  what  poetry,  — 

Diverging  to  another  thought, 

"Ah  !  "  cries  my  friend,  "  but  who  hath  taught 

Why  music  and  the  other  arts 

Oftener  perform  aright  their  parts 

Than  poetry  ?  why  she,  than  they, 

Fewer  fine  successes  can  display? 

"  For  'tis  so,  surely  !     Even  in  Greece, 
Where  best  the  poet  framed  his  piece, 
Even  in  that  Phoebus-guarded  ground 
Pausanias  on  his  travels  found 
Good  poems,  if  he  looked,  more  rare 
(Though  many)  than  good  statues  were  — 
For  these,  in  truth,  were  everywhere. 
Of  bards  full  many  a  stroke  divine 
In  Dante's,  Petrarch's,  Tasso's  line, 
The  land  of  Ariosto  showed  ; 
And  yet,  e'en  there,  the  canvas  glowed 
With  triumphs,  a  yet  ampler  brood, . 
Of  Raphael  and  his  brotherhood. 


EPILOGUE    TO  LESSINCS  LAOCOOW.     26 1 

And  nobly  perfect,  in  our  day 
Of  haste,  half-work,  and  disarray, 
Profound  yet  touching,  sweet  yet  strong, 
Hath  risen  Goethe's,  Wordsworth's  song ; 
Yet  even  I  (and  none  will  bow 
Deeper  to  these)  must  needs  allow, 
They  yield  us  not,  to  soothe  our  pains, 
Such  multitude  of  heavenly  strains 
As  from  the  kings  of  sound  are  blown,  — 
Mozart,  Beethoven,  Mendelssohn." 

While  thus  my  friend  discoursed,  we  pass 

Out  of  the  path,  and  take  the  grass. 

The  grass  had  still  the  green  of  May, 

And  still  the  unblackened  elms  were  gay ; 

The  kine  were  resting  in  the  shade, 

The  flies  a  summer  murmur  made. 

Bright  was  the  morn,  and  south  the  air; 

The  soft-couched  cattle  were  as  fair 

As  those  which  pastured  by  the  sea, 

That  old-world  morn,  in  Sicily, 

When  on  the  beach  the  Cyclops  lay, 

And  Galatea  from  the  bay 

Mocked  her  poor  lovelorn  giant's  lay. 

"  Behold,"  I  said,  "  the  painter's  sphere  ! 

The  limits  of  his  art  appear. 

The  passing  group,  the  summer  morn, 

The  grass,  the  elms,  that  blossomed  thorn, — 

Those  cattle  couched,  or,  as  they  rise, 

Their  shining  flanks,  their  liquid  eyes,  — 

These,  or  much  greater  things,  but  caught 

Like  these,  and  in  one  aspect  brought ! 

In  outward  semblance  he  must  give 

A  moment's  life  of  things  that  live ; 


262     EPILOGUE    TO   LESSING'S  LAO  CO  ON. 

Then  let  him  choose  his  moment  well, 
With  power  divine  its  story  tell." 

Still  we  walked  on,  in  thoughtful  mood, 

And  now  upon  the  bridge  we  stood. 

Full  of  sweet  breathings  was  the  air, 

Of  sudden  stirs  and  pauses  fair. 

Down  o'er  the  stately  bridge  the  breeze 

Came  rustling  from  the  garden-trees, 

And  on  the  sparkling  waters  played  ; 

Light-plashing  waves  an  answer  made, 

And  mimic  boats  their  haven  neared. 

Beyond,  the  abbey-towers  appeared, 

By  mist  and  chimneys  unconfmed, 

Free  to  the  sweep  of  light  and  wind  ; 

While  through  their  earth-moored  nave  below, 

Another  breath  of  wind  doth  blow, 

Sound  as  of  wandering  breeze — but  sound 

In  laws  by  human  artists  bound. 

"  The  world  of  music  !  "  I  exclaimed,  — 

"  This  breeze  that  rustles  by,  that  famed 

Abbey,  recall  it  !  what  a  sphere, 

Large  and  profound,  hath  genius  here  ! 

The  inspired  musician,  what  a  range, 

What  power  of  passion,  wealth  of  change  ! 

Some  source  of  feeling  he  must  choose, 

And  its  locked  fount  of  beauty  use, 

And  through  the  stream  of  music  tell 

Its  else  unutterable  spell ; 

To  choose  it  rightly  is  his  part, 

And  press  into  its  inmost  heart. 

"  Miserere,  Do  mine .' 

The  words  are  uttered,  and  they  flee. 


EPILOGUE    TO  LESSING'S  LAOCOON.     263 

Deep  is  their  penitential  moan, 

Mighty  their  pathos,  but  'tis  gone. 

They  have  declared  the  spirit's  sore, 

Sore  load,  and  words  can  do  no  more. 

Beethoven  takes  them  then,  —  those  two 

Poor,  bounded  words,  —  and  makes  them  new  ; 

Infinite  makes  them,  makes  them  young ; 

Transplants  them  to  another  tongue, 

Where  they  can  now,  without  constraint, 

Pour  all  the  soul  of  their  complaint, 

And  roll  adown  a  channel  large 

The  wealth  divine  they  have  in  charge. 

Page  after  page  of  music  turn, 

And  still  they  live,  and  still  they  burn, 

Eternal,  passion-fraught,  and  free,  — 

Miserere,  Domine  /  " 

Onward  we  moved,  and  reached  the  ride 

Where  gayly  flows  the  human  tide. 

Afar,  in  rest  the  cattle  lay ; 

We  heard,  afar,  faint  music  play ; 

But  agitated,  brisk,  and  near, 

Men,  with  their  stream  of  life,  were  here. 

Some  hang  upon  the  rails,  and  some 

On  foot  behind  them  go  and  come. 

This  through  the  ride  upon  his  steed 

Goes  slowly  by,  and  this  at  speed. 

The  young,  the  happy,  and  the  fair, 

The  old,  the  sad,  the  worn,  were  there  ; 

Some  vacant  and  some  musing  went, 

And  some  in  talk  and  merriment. 

Nods,  smiles,  and  greetings,  and  farewells  ! 

And  now  and  then,  perhaps,  there  swells 

A  sigh,  a  tear  —  but  in  the  throng 

All  changes  fast,  and  hies  along. 


264      EPILOGUE    TO   LESSINCS  LAOCOON. 

Hies,  ah  !  from  whence,  what  native  ground  ? 
And  to  what  goal,  what  ending,  bound? 
"  Behold  at  last  the  poet's  sphere  ! 
But  who,"  I  said,  "suffices  here? 

"  For,  ah  !  so  much  he  has  to  do,  — 
Be  painter  and  musician  too  ! 
The  aspect  of  the  moment  show, 
The  feeling  of  the  moment  know  ! 
The  aspect  not,  I  grant,  express 
Clear  as  the  painter's  art  can  dress  ; 
The  feeling  not,  I  grant,  explore 
So  deep  as  the  musician's  lore  : 
But  clear  as  words  can  make  revealing, 
And  deep  as  words  can  follow  feeling. 
But,  ah  !  then  comes  his  sorest  spell 
Of  toil,  —  he  must  life's  movement  tell ! 
The  thread  which  binds  it  all  in  one, 
And  not  its  separate  parts  alone. 
The  movement  he  must  tell  of  life, 
Its  pain  and  pleasure,  rest  and  strife  ; 
His  eye  must  travel  down,  at  full, 
The  long,  unpausing  spectacle  ; 
With  faithful,  unrelaxing  force 
Attend  it  from  its  primal  source, 
From  change  to  change  and  year  to  year 
Attend  it  of  its  mid-career, 
Attend  it  to  the  last  repose 
And  solemn  silence  of  its  close. 

"  The  cattle  rising  from  the  grass, 

His  thought  must  follow  where  they  pass  ; 

The  penitent  with  anguish  bowed, 

His  thought  must  follow  through  the  crowd, 


EPILOGUE    TO  LESSINCS  LAOCOON.      265 

Yes  !  all  this  eddying,  motley  throng 
That  sparkles  in  the  sun  along,  — 
Girl,  statesman,  merchant,  soldier  bold, 
Master  and  servant,  young  and  old, 
Grave,  gay,  child,  parent,  husband,  wife, — 
He  follows  home,  and  lives  their  life. 


"  And  many,  many  are  the  souls 
Life's  movement  fascinates,  controls. 
It  draws  them  on,  they  cannot  save 
Their  feet  from  its  alluring  wave  ; 
They  cannot  leave  it,  they  must  go 
With  its  unconquerable  flow. 
But  ah  !  how  few,  of  all  that  try 
This  mighty  march,  do  aught  but  die  ! 
For  ill-endowed  for  such  a  way, 
Ill-stored  in  strength,  in  wits,  are  they. 
They  faint,  they  stagger  to  and  fro, 
And  wandering  from  the  stream  they  go  ; 
In  pain,  in  terror,  in  distress, 
They  see,  all  round,  a  wilderness. 
Sometimes  a  momentary  gleam 
They  catch  of  the  mysterious  stream  ; 
Sometimes,  a  second's  space,  their  ear 
The  murmur  of  its  waves  doth  hear ; 
That  transient  glimpse  in  song  they  say, 
But  not  as  painter  can  portray ; 
That  transient  sound  in  song  they  tell, 
But  not  as  the  musician  well. 
And  when  at  last  their  snatches  cease, 
And  they  are  silent  and  at  peace, 
The  stream  of  life's  majestic  whole 
Hath  ne'er  been  mirrored  on  their  soul. 


266      EPILOGUE    TO   LESSING'S  LAOCOON. 

"  Only  a  few  the  life-stream's  shore 

With  safe  unwandering  feet  explore  ; 

Untired  its  movement  bright  attend, 

Follow  its  windings  to  the  end. 

Then  from  its  brimming  waves  their  eye 

Drinks  up  delighted  ecstasy, 

And  its  deep-toned,  melodious  voice 

Forever  makes  their  ear  rejoice. 

They  speak  !  the  happiness  divine 

They  feel  runs  o'er  in  every  line  ; 

Its  spell  is  round  them  like  a  shower ; 

It  gives  them  pathos,  gives  them  power. 

No  painter  yet  hath  such  a  way, 

Nor  no  musician  made,  as  they, 

And  gathered  on  immortal  knolls 

Such  lovely  flowers  for  cheering  souls. 

Beethoven,  Raphael,  cannot  reach 

The  charm  which  Homer,  Shakspeare,  teach. 

To  these,  to  these,  their  thankful  race 

Gives,  then,  the  first,  the  fairest  place  ; 

And  brightest  is  their  glory's  sheen, 

For  greatest  hath  their  labor  been." 


PERSISTENCY  OF  POETRY. 

Though  the  Muse  be  gone  away, 
Though  she  move  not  earth  to-day, 
Souls,  erewhile  who  caught  her  word, 
Ah  !  still  harp  on  what  they  heard. 


A    CAUTION  TO  POETS. 

What  poets  feel  not,  when  they  make, 

A  pleasure  in  creating, 
The  world,  in  its  turn,  will  not  take 

Pleasure  in  contemplating. 


THE    YOUTH  OF  NATURE.  267 

THE    YOUTH   OF  NATURE, 

Raised  are  the  dripping  oars, 
Silent  the  boat !     The  lake, 
Lovely  and  soft  as  a  dream, 
Swims  in  the  sheen  of  the  moon. 
The  mountains  stand  at  its  head 
Clear  in  the  pure  June-night, 
But  the  valleys  are  flooded  with  haze, 
Rydal  and  Fairfield  are  there  ; 
In  the  shadow  Wordsworth  lies  dead. 
So  it  is,  so  it  will  be  for  aye. 
Nature  is  fresh  as  of  old, 
Is  lovely  ;  a  mortal  is  dead. 

The  spots  which  recall  him  survive, 
For  he  lent  a  new  life  to  these  hills. 
The  Pillar  still  broods  o'er  the  fields 
Which  border  Ennerdale  Lake, 
And  Egremont  sleeps  by  the  sea. 
The  gleam  of  The  Evening  Star 
Twinkles  on  Grasmere  no  more, 
But  ruined  and  solemn  and  gray 
The  sheepfold  of  Michael  survives ; 
And  far  to  the  south,  the  heath 
Still  blows  in  the  Quantock  coombs, 
By  the  favorite  waters  of  Ruth. 
These  survive  !     Yet  not  without  pain, 
Pain  and  dejection  to-night, 
Can  I  feel  that  their  poet  is  gone. 

He  grew  old  in  an  age  he  condemned. 
He  looked  on  the  rushing  decay 
Of  the  times  which  had  sheltered  his  youth ; 
Felt  the  dissolving  throes 


268  THE    YOUTH   OF  NATURE. 

Of  a  social  order  he  loved ; 
Outlived  his  brethren,  his  peers ; 
And,  like  the  Theban  seer, 
Died  in  his  enemies'  day. 

Cold  bubbled  the  spring  of  Tilphusa, 
Copais  lay  bright  in  the  moon, 
Helicon  glassed  in  the  lake 
Its  firs,  and  afar  rose  the  peaks 
Of  Parnassus,  snowily  clear  ; 
Thebes  was  behind  him  in  flames, 
And  the  clang  of  arms  in  his  ear, 
When  his  awe-struck  captors  led 
The  Theban  seer  to  the  spring. 
Tiresias  drank  and  died. 
Nor  did  reviving  Thebes 
See  such  a  prophet  again. 

Well  may  we  mourn,  when  the  head 

Of  a  sacred  poet  lies  low 

In  an  age  which  can  rear  them  no  more  ! 

The  complaining  millions  of  men 

Darken  in  labor  and  pain  ; 

But  he  was  a  priest  to  us  all 

Of  the  wonder  and  bloom  of  the  world, 

Which  we  saw  with  his  eyes,  and  were  glad 

He  is  dead,  and  the  fruit-bearing  day 

Of  his  race  is  past  on  the  earth  ; 

And  darkness  returns  to  our  eyes. 

For,  oh  !  is  it  you,  is  it  you, 
Moonlight,  and  shadow,  and  lake, 
And  mountains,  that  fill  us  with  joy, 
Or  the  poet  who  sings  you  so  well? 
Is  it  you,  O  beauty,  O  grace, 


THE    YOUTH  OF  NATURE.  269 

O  charm,  O  romance,  that  we  feel, 

Or  the  voice  which  reveals  what  you  are? 

Are  ye,  like  daylight  and  sun, 

Shared  and  rejoiced  in  by  all  ? 

Or  are  ye  immersed  in  the  mass 

Of  matter,  and  hard  to  extract, 

Or  sunk  at  the  core  of  the  world 

Too  deep  for  the  most  to  discern  ? 

Like  stars  in  the  deep  of  the  sky, 

Which  arise  on  the  glass  of  the  sage, 

But  are  lost  when  their  watcher  is  gone. 

"They  are  here,"  —  I  heard,  as  men  heard 

In  Mysian  Ida  the  voice 

Of  the  mighty  Mother,  or  Crete, 

The  murmur  of  Nature,  reply,  — 

"  Loveliness,  magic,  grace, 

They  are  here  !  they  are  set  in  the  world, 

They  abide  ;  and  the  finest  of  souls 

Hath  not  been  thrilled  by  them  all, 

Nor  the  dullest  been  dead  to  them  quite. 

The  poet  who  sings  them  may  die, 

But  they  are  immortal  and  live, 

For  they  are  the  life  of  the  world. 

Will  ye  not  learn  it,  and  know, 

When  ye  mourn  that  a  poet  is  dead, 

That  the  singer  was  less  than  his  themes, 

Life,  and  emotion,  and  I  ? 

"  More  than  the  singer  are  these. 
Weak  is  the  tremor  of  pain 
That  thrills  in  his  mournfullest  chord 
To  that  which  once  ran  through  his  soul. 
Cold  the  elation  of  joy 


270 


THE    YOUTH  OF  NATURE. 


In  his  gladdest,  airiest  song, 

To  that  which  of  old  in  his  youth 

Filled  him  and  made  him  divine. 

Hardly  his  voice  at  its  best 

Gives  us  a  sense  of  the  awe, 

The  vastness,  the  grandeur,  the  gloom, 

Of  the  unlit  gulf  of  himself. 

"  Ye  know  not  yourselves  ;  and  your  bards  — 

The  clearest,  the  best,  who  have  read 

Most  in  themselves  —  have  beheld 

Less  than  they  left  unrevealed. 

Ye  express  not  yourselves  :  can  ye  make 

With  marble,  with  color,  with  word, 

What  charmed  you  in  others  re-live  ? 

Can  thy  pencil,  O  artist !  restore 

The  figure,  the  bloom  of  thy  love, 

As  she  was  in  her  morning  of  spring? 

Canst  thou  paint  the  ineffable  smile 

Of  her  eyes  as  they  rested  on  thine  ? 

Can  the  image  of  life  have  the  glow, 

The  motion  of  life  itself? 

"  Yourselves  and  your  fellows  ye  know  not ;  and  me, 

The  mateless,  the  one,  will  ye  know? 

Will  ye  scan  me,  and  read  me,  and  tell 

Of  the  thoughts  that  ferment  in  my  breast, 

My  longing,  my  sadness,  my  joy? 

Will  ye  claim  for  your  great  ones  the  gift 

To  have  rendered  the  gleam  of  my  skies, 

To  have  echoed  the  moan  of  my  seas, 

Uttered  the  voice  of  my  hills? 

When  your  great  ones  depart,  will  ye  say,  — 

All  things  have  suffered  a  loss, 

Nature  is  hid  in  their  grave  ? 


THE    YOUTH  OF  MAN.  27 1 

"  Race  after  race,  man  after  man, 
Have  thought  that  my  secret  was  theirs, 
Have  dreamed  that  I  lived  but  for  them, 
That  they  were  my  glory  and  joy. 
—  They  are  dust,  they  are  changed,  they  are  gone  ! 
I  remain." 


THE    YOUTH   OF  MAN. 

We,  0  Nature,  depart : 
Thou  survivest  us  !     This, 
This,  I  know,  is  the  law. 
Yes  !  but,  more  than  this, 
Thou  who  seest  us  die 
Seest  us  change  while  we  live  ; 
Seest  our  dreams,  one  by  one, 
Seest  our  errors  depart ; 
Watchest  us,  Nature  !  throughout 
Mild  and  inscrutably  calm. 

Well  for  us  that  we  change  ! 
Well  for  us  that  the  power 
Which  in  our  morning  prime 
Saw  the  mistakes  of  our  youth, 
Sweet,  and  forgiving,  and  good, 
Sees  the  contrition  of  age  ! 

Behold,  O  Nature,  this  pair  ! 
See  them  to-night  where  they  stand, 
Not  with  the  halo  of  youth 
Crowning  their  brows  with  its  light, 
Not  with  the  sunshine  of  hope, 
Not  with  the  rapture  of  spring, 


272  THE    YOUTH  OF  MAN. 

Which  they  had  of  old,  when  they  stood 
Years  ago  at  my  side 
In  this  self-same  garden,  and  said,  — 
"  We  are  young,  and  the  world  is  ours ; 
Man,  man  is  king  of  the  world  ! 
Fools  that  these  mystics  are 
Who  prate  of  Nature  !  but  she 
Hath  neither  beauty,  nor  warmth, 
Nor  life,  nor  emotion,  nor  power. 
But  man  has  a  thousand  gifts, 
And  the  generous  dreamer  invests 
The  senseless  world  with  them  all. 
Nature  is  nothing  ;  her  charm 
Lives  in  our  eyes  which  can  paint, 
Lives  in  our  hearts  which  can  feel." 

Thou,  O  Nature,  wast  mute, 

Mute  as  of  old  !     Days  flew, 

Days  and  years  ;  and  Time 

With  the  ceaseless  stroke  of  his  wings 

Brushed  off  the  bloom  from  their  soul. 

Clouded  and  dim  grew  their  eye, 

Languid  their  heart  —  for  youth 

Quickened  its  pulses  no  more. 

Slowly,  within  the  walls 

Of  an  ever-narrowing  world, 

They  drooped,  they  grew  blind,  they  grew  old. 

Thee,  and  their  youth  in  thee, 

Nature  !  they  saw  no  more. 

Murmur  of  living, 

Stir  of  existence, 

Soul  of  the  world  ! 

Make,  oh,  make  yourselves  felt 


THE    YOUTH  OF  MAN.  273 

To  the  dying  spirit  of  youth  ! 

Come,  like  the  breath  of  the  spring  ! 

Leave  not  a  human  soul 

To  grow  old  in  darkness  and  pain  ! 

Only  the  living  can  feel  you, 

But  leave  us  not  while  we  live  ! 

Here  they  stand  to-night,  — 

Here,  where  this  gray  balustrade 

Crowns  the  still  valley ;  behind 

In  the  castled  house  with  its  woods 

Which  sheltered  their  childhood  ;  the  sun 

On  its  ivied  windows  ;  a  scent 

From  the  gray-walled  gardens,  a  breath 

Of  the  fragrant  stock  and  the  pink, 

Perfumes  the  evening  air. 

Their  children  play  on  the  lawns. 

They  stand  and  listen  ;  they  hear 

The  children's  shouts,  and  at  times, 

Faintly,  the  bark  of  a  dog 

From  a  distant  farm  in  the  hills. 

Nothing  besides  !  in  front 

The  wide,  wide  valley  outspreads 

To  the  dim  horizon,  reposed 

In  the  twilight,  and  bathed  in  dew, 

Cornfield  and  hamlet  and  copse 

Darkening  fast ;  but  a  light, 

Far  off,  a  glory  of  day, 

Still  plays  on  the  city-spires  ; 

And  there  in  the  dusk  by  the  walls, 

With  the  gray  mist  marking  its  course 

Through  the  silent,  flowery  land, 

On,  to  the  plains,  to  the  sea, 

Floats  the  imperial  stream. 


274  THE    YOUTH  OF  MAN. 

Well  I  know  what  they  feel ! 
They  gaze,  and  the  evening  wind 
Plays  on  their  faces  ;  they  gaze,  — 
Airs  from  the  Eden  of  youth 
Awake  and  stir  in  their  soul ; 
The  past  returns  :  they  feel 
What  they  are,  alas  !  what  they  were< 
They,  not  Nature,  are  changed. 
Well  I  know  what  they  feel ! 

Hush,  for  tears 

Begin  to  steal  to  their  eyes  ! 

Hush,  for  fruit 

Grows  from  such  sorrow  as  theirs  ! 

And  they  remember, 
With  piercing,  untold  anguish, 
The  proud  boasting  of  their  youth. 
And  they  feel  how  Nature  was  fair. 
And  the  mists  of  delusion, 
And  the  scales  of  habit, 
Fall  away  from  their  eyes  ; 
And  they  see,  for  a  moment, 
Stretching  out  like  the  desert 
In  its  weary,  unprofitable  length, 
Their  faded,  ignoble  lives. 

While  the  locks  are  yet  brown  on  thy  head, 

While  the  soul  still  looks  through  thine  eyes, 

While  the  heart  still  pours 

The  mantling  blood  to  thy  cheek, 

Sink,  O  youth,  in  thy  soul  ! 

Yearn  to  the  greatness  of  Nature  ; 

Rally  the  good  in  the  depths  of  thyself! 


PROGRESS.  275 

PALLADIUM. 

Set  where  the  upper  streams  of  Simois  flow, 
Was  the  Palladium,  high  'mid  rock  and  wood ; 
And  Hector  was  in  Ilium,  far  below, 
And  fought,  and  saw  it  not ;  but  there  it  stood  ! 

It  stood,  and  sun  and  moonshine  rained  their  light 
On  the  pure  columns  of  its  glen-built  hall. 
Backward  and  forward  rolled  the  waves  of  fight 
Round  Troy ;  but  while  this  stood,  Troy  could  not  fall. 

So,  in  its  lovely  moonlight,  lives  the  soul. 
Mountains  surround  it,  and  sweet  virgin  air; 
Cold  plashing,  past  it,  crystal  waters  roll : 
We  visit  it  by  moments,  ah,  too  rare  ! 

Men  will  renew  the  battle  in  the  plain 
To-morrow  :  red  with  blood  will  Xanthus  be; 
Hector  and  Ajax  will  be  there  again, 
Helen  will  come  upon  the  wall  to  see. 

Then  we  shall  rust  in  shade,  or  shine  in  strife, 
And  fluctuate  'twixt  blind  hopes  and  blind  despairs, 
And  fancy  that  we  put  forth  all  our  life, 
And  never  know  how  with  the  soul  it  fares. 

Still  doth  the  soul,  from  its  lone  fastness  high, 
Upon  our  life  a  ruling  effluence  send ; 
And  when  it  fails,  fight  as  we  will,  we  die ; 
And,  while  it  lasts,  we  cannot  wholly  end. 


PROGRESS. 


The  Master  stood  upon  the  mount,  and  taught. 
He  saw  a  fire  in  his  disciples'  eyes ; 
"The  old  law,"  they  said,  "  is  wholly  come  to  naught 
Behold  the  new  world  rise  I " 


276  PROGRESS. 

"  Was  it,"  the  Lord  then  said,  "  with  scorn  ye  saw 
The  old  law  observed  by  scribes  and  Pharisees? 
I  say  unto  you,  see  ye  keep  that  law 
More  faithfully  than  these  ! 

"  Too  hasty  heads  for  ordering  worlds,  alas  ! 
Think  not  that  I  to  annul  the  law  have  willed  : 
No  jot,  no  tittle,  from  the  law  shall  pass 
Till  all  have  been  fulfilled." 

So  Christ  said  eighteen  hundred  years  ago. 
And  what,  then,  shall  be  said  to  those  to-day, 
Who  cry  aloud  to  lay  the  old  world  low 
To  clear  the  new  world's  way  ? 

"Religious  fervors  !  ardor  misapplied  ! 
Hence,  hence  ! "  they  cry,  "  ye  do  but  keep  man  blind  ! 
But  keep  him  self-immersed,  pre-occupied, 
And  lame  the  active  mind." 

Ah  !  from  the  old  world  let  some  one  answer  give  : 
"Scorn  ye  this  world,  their  tears,  their  inward  cares? 
I  say  unto  you,  see  that  your  souls  live 
A  deeper  life  than  theirs  ! 

"  Say  ye,  '  The  spirit  of  man  has  found  new  roads, 
And  we  must  leave  the  old  faiths,  and  walk  therein  '  ? 
Leave,  then,  the  cross  as  ye  have  left  carved  gods, 
But  guard  the  fire  within  ! 

"  Bright,  else,  and  fast  the  stream  of  life  may  roll, 
And  no  man  may  the  other's  hurt  behold  ; 
Yet  each  will  have  one  anguish,  —  his  own  soul 
Which  perishes  of  cold." 

Here  let  that  voice  make  end ;  then  let  a  strain 
'From  a  far  lonelier  distance,  like  the  wind 
Be  heard,  floating  through  heaven,  and  fill  again 
These  men's  profoundest  mind  :  — 


RE  VOL  UTIO.\  S.  277 

"  Children  of  men  !  the  unseen  Power,  whose  eye 
Forever  doth  accompany  mankind, 
Hath  looked  on  no  religion  scornfully 
That  men  did  ever  find. 

"  Which  has  not  taught  weak  wills  how  much  they  can  ? 
Which  has  not  fallen  on  the  dry  heart  like  rain  ? 
Which  has  not  cried  to  sunk,  self-weary  man,  — 
Thou  must  be  bom  again  / 

"  Children  of  men  !  not  that  your  age  excel 
In  pride  of  life  the  ages  of  your  sires, 
But  that  ye  think  clear,  feel  deep,  bear  fruit  well, 
The  Friend  of  man  desires." 


REVOLUTIONS. 

Before  man  parted  for  this  earthly  strand, 

While  yet  upon  the  verge  of  heaven  he  stood, 

God  put  a  heap  of  letters  in  his  hand, 

And  bade  him  make  with  them  what  word  he  could. 

And  man  has  turned  them  many  times ;  made  Greece, 
Rome,  England,  France ;  yes,  nor  in  vain  essayed 
Way  after  way,  changes  that  never  cease  ! 
The  letters  have  combined,  something  was  made. 

But  ah  !  an  inextinguishable  sense 
Haunts  him  that  he  has  not  made  what  he  should ; 
That  he  has  still,  though  old,  to  recommence, 
Since  he  has  not  yet  found  the  word  God  would. 

And  empire  after  empire,  at  their  height 
Of  sway,  have  felt  this  boding  sense  come  on  ; 
Have  felt  their  huge  frames  not  constructed  right, 
And  drooped,  and  slowly  died  upon  their  throne, 


278  SELF-DEPENDENCE. 

One  day,  thou  say'st,  there  will  at  last  appear 
The  word,  the  order,  which  God  meant  should  be. 
—  Ah  !  we  shall  know  that  well  when  it  comes  near ; 
The  band  will  quit  man's  heart,  he  will  breathe  free. 


SELF-DEPENDENCE. 

Weary  of  myself,  and  sick  of  asking 
What  I  am,  and  what  I  ought  to  be, 
At  this  vessel's  prow  I  stand,  which  bears  me 
Forwards,  forwards,  o'er  the  starlit  sea. 

And  a  look  of  passionate  desire 

O'er  the  sea  and  to  the  stars  I  send  : 

"  Ye  who  from  my  childhood  up  have  calmed  me, 

Calm  me,  ah,  compose  me  to  the  end  ! 

Ah,  once  more,"  I  cried,  "ye  stars,  ye  waters, 
On  my  heart  your  mighty  charm  renew ; 
Still,  still  let  me,  as  I  gaze  upon  you, 
Feel  my  soul  becoming  vast  like  you  !  " 

From  the  intense,  clear,  star-sown  vault  of  heaven, 
Over  the  lit  sea's  unquiet  way, 
In  the  rustling  night-air  came  the  answer,  — 
"  Wouldst  thou  be  as  these  are  ?     Live  as  they. 

"  Unaffrighted  by  the  silence  round  them, 
Undistracted  by  the  sights  they  see, 
These  demand  not  that  the  things  without  them 
Yield  them  love,  amusement,  sympathy. 

"  And  with  joy  the  stars  perform  their  shining, 
And  the  sea  its  long  moon-silvered  roll ; 
For  self-poised  they  live,  nor  pine  with  noting 
All  the  fever  of  some  differing  soul. 


MORALITY.  279 

"  Bounded  by  themselves,  and  unregardful 
In  what  state  God's  other  works  may  be, 
In  their  own  tasks  all  their  powers  pouring, 
These  attain  the  mighty  life  you  see." 

O  air-born  voice  !  long  since,  severely  clear, 
A  cry  like  thine  in  mine  own  heart  I  hear,  — 
"Resolve  to  be  thyself;  and  know,  that  he 
Who  fiirls  himself  loses  his  misery  !  " 


MORALITY. 


We  cannot  kindle  when  we  will 

The  fire  which  in  the  heart  resides ; 

The  spirit  bloweth  and  is  still, 

In  mystery  our  soul  abides. 

But  tasks  in  hours  of  insight  willed 
Can  be  through  hours  of  gloom  fulfilled. 

With  aching  hands  and  bleeding  feet 
We  dig  and  heap,  lay  stone  on  stone ; 
We  bear  the  burden  and  the  heat 
Of  the  long  day,  and  wish  'twere  done. 
Not  till  the  hours  of  light  return, 
All  we  have  built  do  we  discern. 

Then,  when  the  clouds  are  off  the  soul, 
When  thou  dost  bask  in  Nature's  eye, 
Ask  how  she  viewed  thy  self-control, 
Thy  struggling,  tasked  morality,  — 
Nature,  whose  free,  light,  cheerful  air, 
Oft  made  thee,  in  thy  gloom,  despair. 

And  she,  whose  censure  thou  dost  dread., 
Whose  eye  thou  wast  afraid  to  seek, 


2  SO  A    SUMMER  NIGHT. 

See,  on  her  face  a  glow  is  spread, 

A  strong  emotion  on  her  cheek  ! 

"Ah,  child  !  "  she  cries,  "that  strife  divine, 
Whence  was  it,  for  it  is  not  mine  ? 

"  There  is  no  effort  on  my  brow ; 

I  do  not  strive,  I  do  not  weep  : 

I  rush  with  the  swift  spheres,  and  glow 

In  joy,  and  when  I  will,  I  sleep. 
Yet  that  severe,  that  earnest  air, 
I  saw,  I  felt  it  once  —  but  where  ? 

"  I  knew  not  yet  the  gauge  of  time, 

Nor  wore  the  manacles  of  space ; 

I  felt  it  in  some  other  clime, 

I  saw  it  in  some  other  place. 

'Twas  when  the  heavenly  house  I  trod, 
And  lay  upon  the  breast  of  God." 


A   SUMMER  NIGHT. 

In  the  deserted,  moon-blanched  street, 

How  lonely  rings  the  echo  of  my  feet ! 

Those  windows,  which  I  gaze  at,  frown, 

Silent  and  white,  unopening  down, 

Repellent  as  the  world  ;  but  see, 

A  break  between  the  housetops  shows 

The  moon  !  and  lost  behind  her,  fading  dim 

Into  the  dewy  dark  obscurity 

Down  at  the  far  horizon's  rim, 

Doth  a  whole  tract  of  heaven  disclose  ! 

And  to  my  mind  the  thought 

Is  on  a  sudden  brought 

Of  a  past  night,  and  a  far  different  scene. 


A   SUMMER  NIGHT.  28 1 

Headlands  stood  out  into  the  moonlit  deep 

As  clearly  as  at  noon  ; 

The  spring-tide's  brimming  flow 

Heaved  dazzlingly  between  ; 

Houses,  with  long  white  sweep, 

Girdled  the  glistening  bay  ; 

Behind,  through  the  soft  air, 

The  blue  haze-cradled  mountains  spread  away. 

That  night  was  far  more  fair  — 

But  the  same  restless  pacings  to  and  fro, 

And  the  same  vainly  throbbing  heart  was  there, 

And  the  same  bright,  calm  moon. 

And  the  calm  moonlight  seems  to  say,  — 

Hast  thou,  then,  still  the  old  unquiet  breast, 

Which  neither  deadens  into  rest, 

Nor  ever  feels  the  fiery  glow 

That  whirls  the  spirit  from  itself  away, 

But  fluctuates  to  and  fro, 

Never  by  passion  quite  possessed, 

And  never  quite  benumbed  by  the  world'' 's  sway  ? 

And  I,  I  know  not  if  to  pray 

Still  to  be  what  I  am,  or  yield,  and  be 

Like  all  the  other  men  I  see. 

For  most  men  in  a  brazen  prison  live, 

Where,  in  the  sun's  hot  eye, 

With  heads  bent  o'er  their  toil,  they  languidly 

Their  lives  to  some  unmeaning  task-work  give, 

Dreaming  of  naught  beyond  their  prison-wall. 

And  as,  year  after  year, 

Fresh  products  of  their  barren  labor  fall 

From  their  tired  hands,  and  rest 

Never  yet  comes  more  near, 

Gloom  settles  slowly  down  over  their  breast. 


282  A   SUMMER  NIGHT. 

And  while  they  try  to  stem 

The  waves  of  mournful  thought  by  which  they  are  prest, 

Death  in  their  prison  reaches  them, 

Unfreed,  having  seen  nothing,  still  unblest. 

And  the  rest,  a  few, 

Escape  their  prison,  and  depart 

On  the  wide  ocean  of  life  anew. 

There  the  freed  prisoner,  where'er  his  heart 

Listeth,  will  sail ; 

Nor  doth  he  know  how  there  prevail, 

Despotic  on  that  sea, 

Trade-winds  which  cross  it  from  eternity. 

Awhile  he  holds  some  false  way,  undebarred 

By  thwarting  signs,  and  braves 

The  freshening  wind  and  blackening  waves. 

And  then  the  tempest  strikes  him ;  and  between 

The  lightning-bursts  is  seen 

Only  a  driving  wreck, 

And  the  pale  master  on  his  spar-strewn  deck 

With  anguished  face  and  flying  hair, 

Grasping  the  rudder  hard, 

Still  bent  to  make  some  port,  he  knows  not  where, 

Still  standing  for  some  false,  impossible  shore. 

And  sterner  comes  the  roar 

Of  sea  and  wind  ;  and  through  the  deepening  gloom 

Fainter  and  fainter  wreck  and  helmsman  loom, 

And  he  too  disappears,  and  comes  no  more. 

Is  there  no  life,  but  these  alone  ? 
Madman  or  slave,  must  man  be  one  ? 

Plainness  and  clearness  without  shadow  of  stain  ! 

Clearness  divine  ! 

Ye  heavens,  whose  pure  dark  regions  have  no  sign 


THE  BURIED   LIFE.  283 

Of  languor,  though  so  calm,  and  though  so  great 

Are  yet  untroubled  and  unpassionate  ; 

Who,  though  so  noble,  share  in  the  world's  toil, 

And,  though  so  tasked,  keep  free  from  dust  and  soil  ! 

I  will  not  say  that  your  mild  deeps  retain 

A  tinge,  it  may  be,  of  their  silent  pain 

Who  have  longed  deeply  once,  and  longed  in  vain ; 

But  I  will  rather  say  that  you  remain 

A  world  above  man's  head,  to  let  him  see 

How  boundless  might  his  soul's  horizons  be, 

How  vast,  yet  of  what  clear  transparency  ! 

How  it  were  good  to  live  there,  and  breathe  free ; 

How  fair  a  lot  to  fill 

Is  left  to  each  man  still ! 


THE  BURIED  LIFE. 

Light  flows  our  war  of  mocking  words  ;  and  yet 

Behold,  with  tears  mine  eyes  are  wet ! 

I  feel  a  nameless  sadness  o'er  me  roll. 

Yes,  yes,  we  know  that  we  can  jest, 

We  know,  we  know  that  we  can  smile  ! 

But  there's  a  something  in  this  breast, 

To  which  thy  light  words  bring  no  rest, 

And  thy  gay  smiles  no  anodyne  ; 

Give  me  thy  hand,  and  hush  awhile, 

And  turn  those  limpid  eyes  on  mine, 

And  let  me  read  there,  love  !  thy  inmost  soul 

Alas  !  is  even  love  too  weak 
To  unlock  the  heart,  and  let  it  speak  ? 
Are  even  lovers  powerless  to  reveal 
To  one  another  what  indeed  they  feel  ? 


284  THE  BURIED  LIFE. 

I  knew  the  mass  of  men  concealed 

Their  thoughts,  for  fear  that  if  revealed 

They  would  by  other  men  be  met 

With  blank  indifference,  or  with  blame  reproved  ; 

I  knew  they  lived  and  moved 

Tricked  in  disguises,  alien  to  the  rest 

Of  men,  and  alien  to  themselves  —  and  yet 

The  same  heart  beats  in  every  human  breast ! 

But  we,  my  love  !  doth  a  like  spell  benumb 
Our  hearts,  our  voices  ?  must  we  too  be  dumb  ? 

Ah  !  well  for  us,  if  even  we, 

Even  for  a  moment,  can  get  free 

Our  heart,  and  have  our  lips  unchained  ; 

For  that  which  seals  them  hath  been  deep-o^lained  ! 

Fate,  which  foresaw 

How  frivolous  a  baby  man  would  be,  — 
By  what  distractions  he  would  be  possessed, 
How  he  would  pour  himself  in  every  strife, 
And  well-nigh  change  his  own  identity,  — 
That  it  might  keep  from  his  capricious  play 
His  genuine  self,  and  force  him  to  obey 
Even  in  his  own  despite  his  being's  law, 
Bade  through  the  deep  recesses  of  our  breast 
The  unregarded  river  of  our  life 
Pursue  with  indiscernible  flow  its  way  ; 
And  that  we  should  not  see 
The  buried  stream,  and  seem  to  be 
Eddying  at  large  in  blind  uncertainty, 
Though  driving  on  with  it  eternally. 

But  often,  in  the  world's  most  crowded  streets, 
But  often,  in  the  din  of  strife, 


THE  BURIED  LIFE.  285 

There  rises  an  unspeakable  desire 

After  the  knowledge  of  our  buried  life  ; 

A  thirst  to  spend  our  fire  and  restless  force 

In  tracking  out  our  true,  original  course  ; 

A  longing  to  inquire 

Into  the  mystery  of  this  heart  which  beats 

So  wild,  so  deep  in  us,  —  to  know 

Whence  our  lives  come,  and  where  they  go. 

And  many  a  man  in  his  own  breast  then  delves, 

But  deep  enough,  alas  !  none  ever  mines. 

And  we  have  been  on  many  thousand  lines, 

And  we  have  shown,  on  each,  spirit  and  power ; 

But  hardly  have  we,  for  one  little  hour, 

Been  on  our  own  line,  have  we  been  ourselves,  — 

Hardly  had  skill  to  utter  one  of  all 

The  nameless  feelings  that  course  through  our  breast, 

But  they  course  on  forever  unexpressed. 

And  long  we  try  in  vain  to  speak  and  act 

Our  hidden  self,  and  what  we  say  and  do 

Is  eloquent,  is  well  —  but  'tis  not  true  ! 

And  then  we  will  no  more  be  racked 

With  inward  striving,  and  demand 

Of  all  the  thousand  nothings  of  the  hour 

Their  stupefying  power ; 

Ah,  yes,  and  they  benumb  us  at  our  call  ! 

Yet  still,  from  time  to  time,  vague  and  forlorn; 

From  the  soul's  subterranean  depth  upborne 

As  from  an  infinitely  distant  land, 

Come  airs,  and  floating  echoes,  and  convey 

A  melancholy  into  all  our  day. 

Only  —  but  this  is  rare  — 

When  a  beloved  hand  is  laid  in  ours, 

When,  jaded  with  the  rush  and  glare 


286  LINES    WRITTEN   IN 

Of  the  interminable  hours, 

Our  eyes  can  in  another's  eyes  read  clear, 

When  our  world-deafened  ear 

Is  by  the  tones  of  a  loved  voice  caressed,  — 

A  bolt  is  shot  back  somewhere  in  our  breast, 

And  a  lost  pulse  of  feeling  stirs  again. 

The  eye  sinks  inward,  and  the  heart  lies  plain, 

And  what  we  mean,  we  say,  and  what  we  would,  we  know. 

A  man  becomes  aware  of  his  life's  flow, 

And  hears  its  winding  murmur,  and  he  sees 

The  meadows  where  it  glides,  the  sun,  the  breeze. 

And  there  arrives  a  lull  in  the  hot  race 
Wherein  he  doth  forever  chase 
The  flying  and  elusive  shadow,  rest. 
An  air  of  coolness  plays  upon  his  face, 
And  an  unwonted  calm  pervades  his  breast ; 
And  then  he  thinks  he  knows 
The  hills  where  his  life  rose, 
And  the  sea  where  it  goes. 


LINES    WRITTEN  IN  KENSINGTON 
GARDENS. 

In  this  lone,  open  glade  I  lie, 

Screened  by  deep  boughs  on  either  hand  ; 

And  at  its  end,  to  stay  the  eye, 

Those  black-crowned,  red-boled  pine-trees  stand. 

Birds  here  make  song,  each  bird  has  his, 

Across  the  girdling  city's  hum. 

How  green  under  the  boughs  it  is  ! 

How  thick  the  tremulous  sheep-cries  come  ! 


KENSINGTON  GARDENS.  287 

Sometimes  a  child  will  cross  the  glade 
To  take  his  nurse  his  broken  toy ; 
Sometimes  a  thrush  flit  overhead 
Deep  in  her  unknown  day's  employ. 

Here  at  my  feet  what  wonders  pass  ! 
What  endless,  active  life  is  here  ! 
What  blowing  daisies,  fragrant  grass  ! 
An  air- stirred  forest,  fresh  and  clear. 

Scarce  fresher  is  the  mountain  sod 
Where  the  tired  angler  lies,  stretched  out, 
And,  eased  of  basket  and  of  rod, 
Counts  his  day's  spoil,  the  spotted  trout. 

In  the  huge  world  which  roars  hard  by, 

Be  others  happy  if  they  can  ! 

But  in  my  helpless  cradle  I 

Was  breathed  on  by  the  rural  Pan. 

I,  on  men's  impious  uproar  hurled, 
Think  often,  as  I  hear  them  rave, 
That  peace  has  left  the  upper  world, 
And  now  keeps  only  in  the  grave. 

Yet  here  is  peace  forever  new  ! 
When  I  who  watch  them  am  away, 
Still  all  things  in  this  glade  go  through 
The  changes  of  their  quiet  day. 

Then  to  their  happy  rest  they  pass ; 
The  flowers  upclose,  the  birds  are  fed, 
The  night  comes  down  upon  the  grass, 
The  child  sleeps  warmly  in  his  bed. 

Calm  soul  of  all  things  !  make  it  mine 
To  feel,  amid  the  city's  jar, 
That  there  abides  a  peace  of  thine, 
Man  did  not  make,  and  cannot  mar. 


288 


A    WISH. 


The  will  to  neither  strive  nor  cry, 
The  power  to  feel  with  others,  give  ! 
Calm,  calm  me  more  !  nor  let  me  die 
Before  I  have  begun  to  live. 


A    WISH. 


I  ask  not  that  my  bed  of  death 
From  bands  of  greedy  heirs  be  free ; 
For  these  besiege  the  latest  breath 
Of  fortune's  favored  sons,  not  me. 

I  ask  not  each  kind  soul  to  keep 
Tearless,  when  of  my  death  he  hears. 
Let  those  who  will,  if  any,  weep  ! 
There  are  worse  plagues  on  earth  than  tears. 

I  ask  but  that  my  death  may  find 
The  freedom  to  my  life  denied  ; 
Ask  but  the  folly  of  mankind 
Then,  then  at  last,  to  quit  my  side. 

Spare  me  the  whispering,  crowded  room, 
The  friends  who  come,  and  gape,  and  go ; 
The  ceremonious  air  of  gloom,  — 
All  which  makes  death  a  hideous  show  ! 

Nor  bring,  to  see  me  cease  to  live, 
Some  doctor  full  of  phrase  and  fame, 
To  shake  his  sapient  head,  and  give 
The  ill  he  cannot  cure  a  name. 

Nor  fetch,  to  take  the  accustomed  toll 
Of  the  poor  sinner  bound  for  death, 
His  brother-doctor  of  the  soul, 
To  canvass  with  official  breath 


A    WISH.  289 

The  future  and  its  viewless  things,  — 

That  undiscovered  mystery 

Which  one  who  feels  death's  winnowing  wings 

Must  needs  read  clearer,  sure,  than  he  ! 

Bring  none  of  these  ;  but  let  me  be, 
While  all  around  in  silence  lies, 
Moved  to  the  window  near,  and  see 
Once  more,  before  my  dying  eyes,  — 

Bathed  in  the  sacred  dews  of  morn 
The  wide  aerial  landscape  spread,  — 
The  world  which  was  ere  I  was  born, 
The  world  which  lasts  when  I  am  dead : 

Which  never  was  the  friend  of  one, 
Nor  promised  love  it  could  not  give, 
But  lit  for  all  its  generous  sun, 
And  lived  itself,  and  made  us  live. 

There  let  me  gaze,  till  I  become 
In  soul,  with  what  I  gaze  on,  wed  ! 
To  feel  the  universe  my  home  ; 
To  have  before  my  mind  —  instead 

Of  the  sick-room,  the  mortal  strife, 
The  turmoil  for  a  little  breath  — 
The  pure  eternal  course  of  life, 
Not  human  combatings  with  death  ! 

Thus  feeling,  gazing,  might  I  grow 
Composed,  refreshed,  ennobled,  clear; 
Then  willing  let  my  spirit  go 
To  work  or  wait  elsewhere  or  here  ! 


2QO  THE   FUTURE. 


THE  FUTURE. 

A  wanderer  is  man  from  his  birth. 

He  was  born  in  a  ship 

On  the  breast  of  the  river  of  Time ; 

Brimming  with  wonder  and  joy, 

He  spreads  out  his  arms  to  the  light, 

Rivets  his  gaze  on  the  banks  of  the  stream. 

As  what  he  sees  is,  so  have  his  thoughts  been. 

Whether  he  wakes 

Where  the  snowy  mountainous  pass, 

Echoing  the  screams  of  the  eagles, 

Hems  in  its  gorges  the  bed 

Of  the  new-born,  clear-flowing  stream ; 

Whether  he  first  sees  light 

Where  the  river  in  gleaming  rings 

Sluggishly  winds  through  the  plain  ; 

Whether  in  sound  of  the  swallowing  sea,  — 

As  is  the  world  on  the  banks, 

So  is  the  mind  of  the  man. 

Vainly  does  each,  as  he  glides, 

Fable  and  dream 

Of  the  lands  which  the  river  of  Time 

Had  left  ere  he  woke  on  its  breast, 

Or  shall  reach  when  his  eyes  have  been  closed. 

Only  the  tract  where  he  sails 

He  wots  of;  only  the  thoughts, 

Raised  by  the  objects  he  passes,  are  his. 

Who  can  see  the  green  earth  any  more 
As  she  was  by  the  sources  of  Time  ? 
Who  imagines  her  fields  as  they  lay 
In  the  sunshine,  unworn  by  the  plough  ? 


THE  FUTURE.  29 1 

Who  thinks  as  they  thought, 

The  tribes  who  then  roamed  on  her  breast, 

Her  vigorous,  primitive  sons  ? 

What  girl 

Now  reads  in  her  bosom  as  clear 

As  Rebekah  read,  when  she  sate 

At  eve  by  the  palm-shaded  well  ? 

Who  guards  in  her  breast 

As  deep,  as  pellucid  a  spring 

Of  feeling,  as  tranquil,  as  sure? 

What  bard, 

At  the  height  of  his  vision,  can  deem 

Of  God,  of  the  world,  of  the  soul, 

With  a  plainness  as  near, 

As  flashing,  as  Moses  felt, 

When  he  lay  in  the  night  by  his  flock 

On  the  starlit  Arabian  waste  ? 

Can  rise  and  obey 

The  beck  of  the  Spirit  like  him  ? 

This  tract  which  the  river  of  Time 

Now  flows  through  with  us,  is  the  plain. 

Gone  is  the  calm  of  its  earlier  shore. 

Bordered  by  cities,  and  hoarse 

With  a  thousand  cries  is  its  stream. 

And  we  on  its  breast,  our  minds 

Are  confused  as  the  cries  which  we  hear, 

Changing  and  short  as  the  sights  which  we  see. 

And  we  say  that  repose  has  fled 

Forever  the  course  of  the  river  of  Time. 

That  cities  will  crowd  to  its  edge 

In  a  blacker,  incessanter  line  ; 

That  the  din  will  be  more  on  its  banks. 


292  THE  FUTURE. 

Denser  the  trade  on  its  stream, 

Platter  the  plain  where  it  flows, 

Fiercer  the  sun  overhead  ; 

That  never  will  those  on  its  breast 

See  an  ennobling  sight, 

Drink  of  the  feeling  of  quiet  again. 

But  what  was  before  us  we  know  not, 
And  we  know  not  what  shall  succeed. 

Haply,  the  river  of  Time  — 

As  it  grows,  as  the  towns  on  its  marge 

Fling  their  wavering  lights 

On  a  wider,  statelier  stream  — 

May  acquire,  if  not  the  calm 

Of  its  early  mountainous  shore, 

Yet  a  solemn  peace  of  its  own. 

And  the  width  of  the  waters,  the  hush 

Of  the  gray  expanse  where  he  floats, 

Freshening  its  current,  and  spotted  with  foam 

As  it  draws  to  the  ocean,  may  strike 

Peace  to  the  soul  of  the  man  on  its  breast,  — 

As  the  pale  waste  widens  around  him, 

As  the  banks  fade  dimmer  away, 

As  the  stars  come  out,  and  the  night-wind 

Brings  up  the  stream 

Murmurs  and  scents  of  the  infinite  sea. 


NEW  ROME.  293 

NEW  ROME. 

LINES   WRITTEN   FOR   MISS   STORY'S   ALBUM. 

The  armless  Vatican  Cupid 

Hangs  down  his  beautiful  head  ; 
For  the  priests  have  got  him  in  prison, 

And  Psyche  long  has  been  dead. 

But  see,  his  shaven  oppressors 

Begin  to  quake  and  disband  ! 
And  The  Times,  that  bright  Apollo, 

Proclaims  salvation  at  hand. 


"And  what,"  cries  Cupid,  "will  save  us?  " 
Says  Apollo  :  "  Modernise  Rome! 

What  inns  !     Your  streets,  too,  how  narrow  ! 
Too  much  of  palace  and  dome  ! 

"  O  learn  of  London,  whose  paupers 
Are  not  pushed  out  by  the  swells ! 

Wide  streets  with  fine  double  trottoirs  ; 
And  then  —  the  London  hotels  ! " 


The  armless  Vatican  Cupid 

Hangs  down  his  head  as  before. 

Through  centuries  past  it  has  hung  so, 
And  will  through  centuries  more. 


294  THE  LORD'S  MESSENGERS. 


THE  LORD'S  MESSENGERS. 

Thus  saith  the  Lord  to  his  own  :  — 
"  See  ye  the  trouble  below? 
Warfare  of  man  from  his  birth  ! 
Too  long  let  we  them  groan  ; 
Haste,  arise  ye,  and  go, 

Carry  my  peace  upon  earth  !  " 

Gladly  they  rise  at  his  call, 
Gladly  obey  his  command, 
Gladly  descend  to  the  plain. 
—  Ah  !  how  few  of  them  all, 

Those  willing  servants,  shall  stand 
In  the  Master's  presence  again  ! 

Some  in  the  tumult  are  lost ; 
Baffled,  bewilder'd,  they  stray. 
Some,  as  prisoners,  draw  breath. 
Some,  unconquer'd,  are  cross'd 
(Not  yet  half  through  the  day) 
By  a  pitiless  arrow  of  Death. 

Hardly,  hardly  shall  one 

Come,  with  countenance  bright, 
At  the  close  of  day,  from  the  plain ; 
His  Master's  errand  well  done, 

Safe  through  the  smoke  of  the  fight, 
Back  to  his  Master  again. 


MEROPE.  295 

ME  ROPE. 

A  TRAGEDY. 

STORY   OF   THE   DRAMA. 

Apollodorus  says: — "  Cresphontes  had  not  reigned  long 
in  Messenia  when  he  was  murdered,  together  with  two  of  his 
sons.  And  Polyphontes  reigned  in  his  stead,  he,  too,  being 
of  the  family  of  Hercules;  and  he  had  for  his  wife,  against  her 
will,  Merope,  the  widow  of  the  murdered  king.  But  Merope 
had  borne  to  Cresphontes  a  third  son,  called  /Epytus;  him  she 
gave  to  her  own  father  to  bring  up.  He,  when  he  came  to  man's 
estate,  returned  secretly  to  Messenia,  and  slew  Polyphontes  and 
the  other  murderers  of  his  father." 

Hyginus  says :  —  "  Merope  sent  away  and  concealed  her  in- 
fant son.  Polyphontes  sought  for  him  everywhere  in  vain. 
He,  when  he  grew  up,  laid  a  plan  to  avenge  the  murder  of  his 
father  and  brothers.  In  pursuance  of  this  plan  he  came  to  king 
Polyphontes  and  reported  the  death  of  the  son  of  Cresphontes 
and  Merope.  The  king  ordered  him  to  be  hospitably  enter- 
tained, intending  to  inquire  further  of  him.  He,  being  very 
tired,  went  to  sleep,  and  an  old  man,  who  was  the  channel 
through  whom  the  mother  and  son  used  to  communicate,  arrived 
at  this  moment  in  tears,  bringing  word  to  Merope  that  her  son 
had  disappeared  from  his  protector's  house,  and  was  slain. 
Merope,  believing  that  the  sleeping  stranger  was  the  murderer  of 
her  son,  came  into  the  guest-chamber  with  an  axe,  not  knowing 
that  he  whom  she  would  slay  was  her  son;  the  old  man  recog- 
nized him,  and  withheld  Merope  from  slaying  him.  The  king, 
Polyphontes,  rejoicing  at  the  supposed  death  of  ^Epytus,  cele- 
brated a  sacrifice;  his  guest,  pretending  to  strike  the  sacrificial 
victim,  slew  the  king,  and  so  got  back  his  father's  kingdom." 

The  events  on  which  the  action  of  the  drama  turns  belong  to 
the  period  of  transition  from  the  heroic  and  fabulous  to  the 
human  and  historic  age  of  Greece.  The  doings  of  the  hero 
Hercules,  the  ancestor  of  the  Messenian  ^Epytus,  belong  to 
fable;  but  the  invasion  of  Peloponnesus  by  the  Dorians  under 
chiefs  claiming  to  be  descended  from  Hercules,  and  their  settle- 
ment in  Argos,  Lacediemon,  and  Messenia,  belong  to  history. 


296  ME  ROPE. 

/Epytus  is  descended  on  the  father's  side  from  Hercules,  Perseus, 
and  the  kings  of  Argos;  on  the  mother's  side  from  Pelasgus, 
and  the  aboriginal  kings  of  Arcadia.  Callisto,  the  daughter  of 
the  wicked  Lycaon,  and  the  mother,  by  Zeus,  of  Areas,  from 
whom  the  Arcadians  took  their  name,  was  the  granddaughter 
of  Pelasgus.  The  birth  of  Areas  brought  upon  Callisto  the  anger 
of  the  virgin-goddess  Artemis,  whose  service  she  followed  :  she 
was  changed  into  a  she-bear,  and  in  this  form  was  chased  by  her 
own  son,  grown  to  manhood.  Zeus  interposed,  and  the  mother 
and  son  were  removed  from  the  earth,  and  placed  among  the 
stars.  Callisto  became  the  famous  constellation  of  the  Great 
Bear;  her  son  became  Arcturus,  Arctophylax,  or  Bootes.  From 
this  son  of  Callisto  were  descended  Cypselus,  the  maternal 
grandfather  of  yEpytus,  and  the  children  of  Cypselus,  Laias  and 
Merope. 

The  story  of  the  life  of  Hercules,  the  paternal  ancestor  of 
/Epytus,  is  so  well  known  that  there  is  no  need  to  record  it. 
The  reader  will  remember  that,  although  entitled  to  the  throne 
of  Argos  by  right  of  descent  from  Perseus  and  Uanaus,  and  to 
the  thrones  of  Sparta  and  Messenia  by  right  of  conquest,  Her- 
cules yet  passed  his  life  in  labors  and  wanderings,  subjected  by 
the  decree  of  fate  to  the  commands  of  his  kinsman,  the  feeble 
and  malignant  Eurystheus.  At  his  death  he  bequeathed  to 
his  offspring,  the  Heracleidre,  his  own  claims  to  the  kingdoms 
of  Peloponnesus,  and  to  the  persecution  of  Eurystheus.  They 
at  first  sought  shelter  with  Ceyx,  king  of  Trachis;  he  was  too 
weak  to  protect  them,  and  they  then  took  refuge  at  Athens. 
The  Athenians  refused  to  deliver  them  up  at  the  demand  of 
Eurystheus;  he  invaded  Attica,  and  a  battle  was  fought  near 
Marathon,  in  which,  after  Macaria,  a  daughter  of  Hercules,  had 
devoted  herself  for  the  preservation  of  her  house,  Eurystheus 
fell,  and  the  Heracleidae  and  their  Athenian  protectors  were 
victorious.  The  memory  of  Macaria's  self-sacriliccs  was  per- 
petuated by  the  name  of  a  spring  of  water  on  the  plain  of 
Marathon,  the  spring  Macaria.  The  Heracleidx*  then  endeav- 
ored to  effect  their  return  to  Peloponnesus.  Hyllus,  the  eldest 
of  them,  inquired  of  the  oracle  at  Delphi  respecting  their  return; 
he  was  told  to  return  by  the  narrow  passage  and  in  the  third 
harvest.  Accordingly,  in  the  third  year  from  that  time  Hyllus 
led  an  army  to  the  Isthmus  of  Corinth;  but  there  he  was  en- 
countered by  an  army  of  Achaians  and  Arcadians,  and  fell  in 
single  combat  with  Echemus,  king  of  Tegea.  Upon  this  defeat 
the  Heracleidae  retired  to  northern  Greece;   there,  after  much 


ME  ROPE.  297 

wandering,  they  finally  took  refuge  with  ^gimius,  king  of  the 
Dorians,  who  appears  to  have  been  the  fastest  friend  of  their 
house,  and  whose  Dorian  warriors  formed  the  army  which  at 
last  achieved  their  return.  But,  for  a  hundred  years  from  the 
date  of  their  first  attempt,  the  Heracleidte  were  defeated  in 
their  successive  invasions  of  Peloponnesus.  Cleolaus  and  Aris- 
tomachus,  the  son  and  grandson  of  Hyllus,  fell  in  unsuccessful 
expeditions.  At  length  the  sons  of  Aristomachus,  Temenus, 
Cresphontes,  and  Aristodemus,  when  grown  up,  repaired  to 
Delphi  and  taxed  the  oracle  with  the  non-fulfilment  of  the 
promise  made  to  their  ancestor  Hyllus.  But  Apollo  replied 
that  his  oracle  had  been  misunderstood;  for  that  by  the  third 
harvest  he  had  meant  the  third  generation,  and  by  the  narrow 
passage  he  had  meant  the  straits  of  the  Corinthian  Gulf.  After 
this  explanation  the  sons  of  Aristomachus  built  a  fleet  at  Nau- 
pactus;  and  finally,  in  the  hundredth  year  from  the  death  of 
Hyllus  and  the  eightieth  from  the  fall  of  Troy,  the  invasion  was 
again  attempted  and  was  this  time  successful.  The  son  of  Orestes, 
Tisamenus,  who  ruled  both  Argos  and  Lacedremon,  fell  in  battle ; 
many  of  his  vanquished  subjects  left  their  homes  and  took  refuge 
in  Achaia. 

The  spoil  was  now  to  be  divided  among  the  conquerors. 
Aristodemus,  the  youngest  of  the  sons  of  Aristomachus,  did  not 
survive  to  enjoy  his  share.  He  was  slain  at  Delphi  by  the  sons 
of  Pylades  and  Electra,  the  kinsmen,  through  their  mother,  of 
the  house  of  Agamemnon,  that  house  which  the  Heracleidre 
with  their  Dorian  army  had  dispossessed.  The  claims  of  Aris- 
todemus descended  to  his  two  sons,  Procles  and  Eurysthenes, 
children  under  the  guardianship  of  their  maternal  uncle,  Theras. 
Temenus,  the  eldest  of  the  sons  of  Aristomachus,  took  the  king- 
dom of  Argos.  For  the  two  remaining  kingdoms,  that  of  Sparta 
and  that  of  Messenia,  his  two  nephews,  who  were  to  rule  jointly, 
and  their  uncle  Cresphontes,  had  to  cast  lots.  Cresphontes 
wished  to  have  the  fertile  Messenia,  and  induced  his  brother  to 
acquiesce  in  a  trick  which  secured  it  to  him.  The  lot  of  Cres- 
phontes and  that  of  his  two  nephews  were  to  be  placed  in  a 
water-jar,  and  thrown  out.  Messenia  was  to  belong  to  him 
whose  lot  came  out  first.  With  the  connivance  of  Temenus, 
Cresphontes  marked  as  his  own  lot  a  pellet  composed  of  baked 
clay,  as  the  lot  of  his  nephews,  a  pellet  of  unbaked  clay;  the 
unbaked  pellet  was  of  course  dissolved  in  the  water,  while  the 
brick  pellet  fell  out  alone.  Messenia,  therefore,  was  assigned 
to  Cresphontes. 


298  ME  ROPE. 

Messenia  was  at  this  time  ruled  by  Melanthus,  a  descendant 
of  Neleus.  This  ancestor,  a  prince  of  the  great  house  of  /Eolus, 
had  come  from  Thessaly  and  succeeded  to  the  Messenian  throne 
on  the  failure  of  the  previous  dynasty.  Melanthus  and  his  race 
were  thus  foreigners  in  Messenia  and  were  unpopular.  His 
subjects  offered  little  or  no  opposition  to  the  invading  Dorians; 
Melanthus  abandoned  his  kingdom  to  Cresphontes,  and  retired 
to  Athens. 

Cresphontes  married  Merope,  whose  native  country,  Arcadia, 
was  not  affected  by  the  Dorian  invasion.  This  marriage,  the 
issue  of  which  was  three  sons,  connected  him  with  the  native 
population  of  Peloponnesus.  He  built  a  new  capital  of  Mes- 
senia, Stenyclaros,  and  transferred  thither,  from  Pylos,  the  seat 
of  government;  he  proposed,  moreover,  says  Pausanias,  to  divide 
Messenia  into  five  states,  and  to  confer  on  the  native  Messenians 
equal  privileges  with  their  Dorian  conquerors.  The  Dorians 
complained  that  his  administration  unduly  favored  the  van- 
quished people;  his  chief  magnates,  headed  by  Polyphontes, 
himself  a  descendant  of  Hercules,  formed  a  cabal  against  him, 
and  he  was  slain  with  his  two  eldest  sons.  The  youngest  son 
of  Cresphontes,  /Epytus,  then  an  infant,  was  saved  by  his  mother, 
who  sent  him  to  her  father,  Cypselus,  the  king  of  Arcadia,  under 
whose  protection  he  was  brought  up. 

The  drama  begins  at  the  moment  when  ./Epytus,  grown  to 
manhood,  returns  secretly  to  Messenia  to  take  vengeance  on  his 
father's  murderers.  At  this  period  Temenus  was  no  longer 
reigning  at  Argos;  he  had  been  murdered  by  his  sons,  jealous 
of  their  brother-in-law,  Deiphontes.  The  sons  of  Aristodemus, 
Procles  and  Eurysthenes,  at  variance  with  their  uncle  and  ex- 
guardian,  Theras,  were  reigning  at  Sparta. 


PERSONS   OF  THE  DRAMA. 

Laias,  uncle  of  /Epytus,   brother  of  Merope. 

JEvytvs,  son  of  Merope  and  Cresphontes. 

Polyphontes,  king  of  Messenia. 

Merope,  widow  of  Cresphontes,  the  murdered  king  of  Messenia. 

The  Chorus,  of  Messenian  maidens. 

Arcas,  an  old  man  of  Merope's  household. 

Messenger. 

Guards,  Attendants,  etc. 

The  Scene  is  before  the  royal  palace  in  Stenyclaros,  the  capital  of 
Messenia.  In  the  foreground  is  the  tomb  of  Cresphontes.  The 
action  commences  at  daybreak. 


MEROPE.  299 

MEROPE. 

LAIAS.         VEPYTUS. 
LAIAS. 

Son  of  Cresphontes,  we  have  reach'd  the  goal 

Of  our  night-journey,  and  thou  seest  thy  home. 

Behold  thy  heritage,  thy  father's  realm  ! 

This  is  that  fruitful,  famed  Messenian  land, 

Wealthy  in  corn  and  flocks,  which,  when  at  last 

The  late-relenting  Gods  with  victory  brought 

The  Heracleidse  back  to  Pelops'  isle, 

Fell  to  thy  father's  lot,  the  second  prize. 

Before  thy  feet  this  recent  city  spreads 

Of  Stenyclaros,  which  he  built,  and  made 

Of  his  fresh-conquer'd  realm  the  royal  seat, 

Degrading  Pylos  from  its  ancient  rule. 

There  stands  the  temple  of  thine  ancestor, 

Great  Heracles ;  and,  in  that  public  place, 

Zeus  hath  his  altar,  where  thy  father  fell. 

Southward  and  west,  behold  those  snowy  peaks, 

Taygetus,  Laconia's  border-wall ; 

And,  on  this  side,  those  confluent  streams  which  make 

Pamisus  watering  the  Messenian  plain  ; 

Then  to  the  north,  Lycaeus  and  the  hills 

Of  pastoral  Arcadia,  where,  a  babe 

Snatch'd  from  the  slaughter  of  thy  father's  house, 

Thy  mother's  kin  received  thee,  and  rear'd  up.  — 

Our  journey  is  well  made,  the  work  remains 

Which  to  perform  we  made  it ;  means  for  that 

Let  us  consult,  before  this  palace  sends 

Its  inmates  on  their  daily  tasks  abroad. 

Haste  and  advise,  for  day  comes  on  apace. 


300  MEROPE. 


/EPYTUS. 


O  brother  of  my  mother,  guardian  true, 

And  second  father  from  that  hour  when  first 

My  mother's  faithful  servant  laid  me  down, 

An  infant,  at  the  hearth  of  Cypselus, 

My  grandfather,  the  good  Arcadian  king  — 

Thy  part  it  were  to  advise,  and  mine  to  obey. 

But  let  us  keep  that  purpose,  which,  at  home, 

We  judged  the  best ;  chance  finds  no  better  way. 

Go  thou  into  the  city,  and  seek  out 

Whate'er  in  the  Messenian  people  stirs 

Of  faithful  fondness  for  their  former  king 

Or  hatred  to  their  present ;  in  this  last 

Will  lie,  my  grandsire  said,  our  fairest  chance. 

For  tyrants  make  man  good  beyond  himself; 

Hate  to  their  rule,  which  else  would  die  away, 

Their  daily-practised  chafings  keep  alive. 

Seek  this  !  revive,  unite  it,  give  it  hope  j 

Bid  it  rise  boldly  at  the  signal  given. 

Meanwhile  within  my  father's  palace  I, 

An  unknown  guest,  will  enter,  bringing  word 

Of  my  own  death  —  but,  Laias,  well  I  hope 

Through  that  pretended  death  to  live  and  reign. 

[The  Chorus  comes  forth. 
Softly,  stand  back  !  —  see,  to  these  palace  gates 
What  black  procession  slowly  makes  approach?  — 
Sad-chanting  maidens  clad  in  mourning  robes, 
With  pitchers  in  their  hands,  and  fresh-pull'd  flowers  — 
Doubtless,  they  bear  them  to  my  father's  tomb. 

[MEROPE  comes  forth. 

And  look,  to  meet  them,  that  one,  grief-plunged  Form, 
Severer,  paler,  statelier  than  they  all, 
A  golden  circlet  on  her  queenly  brow 


t 


MEROPE.  301 

0  Laias,  Laias,  let  the  heart  speak  here  — 
Shall  I  not  greet  her?  shall  I  not  leap  forth? 

[Polyphontes  comes  forth,  following  Merope. 

LAIAS. 

Not  so  !  thy  heart  would  pay  its  moment's  speech 

By  silence  ever  after,  for,  behold  ! 

The  King  (I  know  him,  even  through  many  years) 

Follows  the  approaching  Queen,  who  stops,  as  call'd. 

No  lingering  now  !  straight  to  the  city  I ; 

Do  thou,  till  for  thine  entrance  to  this  house 

The  happy  moment  comes,  lurk  here  unseen 

Behind  the  shelter  of  thy  father's  tomb  ; 

Remove  yet  further  off,  if  aught  comes  near. 

But,  here  while  harboring,  on  its  margin  lay, 

Sole  offering  that  thou  hast,  locks  from  thy  head  ; 

And  fill  thy  leisure  with  an  earnest  prayer 

To  his  avenging  Shade,  and  to  the  Gods 

Who  under  earth  watch  guilty  deeds  of  men, 

To  guide  our  vengeance  to  a  prosperous  close. 

[Laias  goes  out.  Polyphontes,  Merope,  and  the  Chorus 
come  forward.  As  they  advance,  /Epytus,  who  at  first 
conceals  himself  behind  the  tomb,  moves  off  the  stage. 

POLYPHONTES.      {To   THE   CHORUS.) 

Set  down  your  pitchers,  maidens,  and  fall  back  ! 

Suspend  your  melancholy  rites  awhile  ; 

Shortly  ye  shall  resume  them  with  your  Queen.  — 

{To    MEROPE.) 

1  sought  thee,  Merope  ;  I  find  thee  thus, 
As  I  have  ever  found  thee  ;  bent  to  keep, 
By  sad  observances  and  public  grief, 

A  mournful  feud  alive,  which  else  would  die. 


302  ME  ROPE. 

I  blame  thee  not,  I  do  thy  heart  no  wrong  ! 
Thy  deep  seclusion,  thine  unyielding  gloom, 
Thine  attitude  of  cold,  estranged  reproach, 
These  punctual  funeral  honors,  year  by  year 
Repeated,  are  in  thee,  I  well  believe, 
Courageous,  faithful  actions,  nobly  dared. 
But,  Merope,  the  eyes  of  other  men 
Read  in  these  actions,  innocent  in  thee, 
Perpetual  promptings  to  rebellious  hope, 
War-cries  to  faction,  year  by  year  renew'd, 
Beacons  of  vengeance,  not  to  be  let  die. 
And  me,  believe  it,  wise  men  gravely  blame, 
And  ignorant  men  despise  me,  that  I  stand 
Passive,  permitting  thee  what  course  thou  wilt. 
Yes,  the  crowd  mutters  that  remorseful  fear 
And  paralyzing  conscience  stop  my  arm, 
When  it  should  pluck  thee  from  thy  hostile  way. 
All  this  I  bear,  for,  what  I  seek,  I  know  : 
Peace,  peace  is  what  I  seek,  and  public  calm  ; 
Endless  extinction  of  unhappy  hates, 
Union  cemented  for  this  nation's  weal. 
And  even  now,  if  to  behold  me  here, 
This  day,  amid  these  rites,  this  black-robed  train, 
Wakens,  O  Queen  !  remembrance  in  thy  heart 
Too  wide  at  variance  with  the  peace  I  seek  — 
I  will  not  violate  thy  noble  grief, 
The  prayer  I  came  to  urge  I  will  defer. 

MEROPE. 

This  day,  to-morrow,  yesterday,  alike 
I  am,  I  shall  be,  have  been,  in  my  mind 
Tow'rd  thee  ;  toward  thy  silence  as  thy  speech. 
Speak,  therefore,  or  keep  silence,  which  thou  wilt. 


ME  ROPE.  303 


POLYPHONTES. 

Hear  me,  then,  speak ;  and  let  this  mournful  day, 

The  twentieth  anniversary  of  strife, 

Henceforth  be  honor'd  as  the  date  of  peace. 

Yes,  twenty  years  ago  this  day  beheld 

The  king  Cresphontes,  thy  great  husband,  fall ; 

It  needs  no  yearly  offerings  at  his  tomb 

To  keep  alive  that  memory  in  my  heart  — 

It  lives,  and,  while  I  see  the  light,  will  live. 

For  we  were  kinsmen  —  more  than  kinsmen  —  friends ; 

Together  we  had  grown,  together  lived  ; 

Together  to  this  isle  of  Pelops  came 

To  take  the  inheritance  of  Heracles, 

Together  won  this  fair  Messenian  land  — 

Alas,  that,  how  to  rule  it,  was  our  broil ! 

He  had  his  counsel,  party,  friends  —  I  mine  ; 

He  stood  by  what  he  wish'd  for  —  I  the  same  ; 

I  smote  him,  when  our  wishes  clash'd  in  arms  — 

He  had  smit  me,  had  he  been  swift  as  I. 

But  while  I  smote  him,  Queen,  I  honor'd  him  ; 

Me,  too,  had  he  prevail'd,  he  had  not  scorn'd. 

Enough  of  this  !     Since  that,  I  have  maintain'd 

The  sceptre  —  not  remissly  let  it  fall  — 

And  I  am  seated  on  a  prosperous  throne  ; 

Yet  still,  for  I  conceal  it  not,  ferments 

In  the  Messenian  people  what  remains 

Of  thy  dead  husband's  faction  —  vigorous  once, 

Now  crush'd  but  not  quite  lifeless  by  his  fall. 

And  these  men  look  to  thee,  and  from  thy  grief — 

Something  too  studiously,  forgive  me,  shown  — 

Infer  thee  their  accomplice  ;  and  they  say 

That  thou  in  secret  nurturest  up  thy  son, 

Him  whom  thou  hiddest  when  thy  husband  fell, 


304  ME  ROPE. 

To  avenge  that  fall,  and  bring  them  back  to  power. 

Such  are  their  hopes  —  I  ask  not  if  by  thee 

Willingly  fed  or  no  —  their  most  vain  hopes  ; 

For  I  have  kept  conspiracy  fast-chain'd 

Till  now,  and  I  have  strength  to  chain  it  still. 

But,  Merope,  the  years  advance  ;  —  I  stand 

Upon  the  threshold  of  old  age,  alone, 

Always  in  arms,  always  in  face  of  foes. 

The  long  repressive  attitude  of  rule 

Leaves  me  austerer,  sterner,  than  I  would ; 

Old  age  is  more  suspicious  than  the  free 

And  valiant  heart  of  youth,  or  manhood's  firm 

Unclouded  reason ;  I  would  not  decline 

Into  a  jealous  tyrant,  scourged  with  fears, 

Closing  in  blood  and  gloom  his  sullen  reign. 

The  cares  which  might  in  me  with  time,  I  feel, 

Beget  a  cruel  temper,  help  me  quell ! 

The  breach  between  our  parties  help  me  close  ! 

Assist  me  to  rule  mildly  ;  let  us  join 

Our  hands  in  solemn  union,  making  friends 

Our  factions  with  the  friendship  of  their  chiefs. 

Let  us  in  marriage,  King  and  Queen,  unite 

Claims  ever  hostile  else,  and  set  thy  son  — 

No  more  an  exile  fed  on  empty  hopes, 

And  to  an  unsubstantial  title  heir, 

But  prince  adopted  by  the  will  of  power, 

And  future  king — before  this  people's  eyes. 

Consider  him  !  consider  not  old  hates  ! 

Consider,  too,  this  people,  who  were  dear 

To  their  dead  king,  thy  husband  —  yea,  too  dear, 

For  that  destroy'd  him.    Give  them  peace  !  thou  canst. 

O  Merope,  how  many  noble  thoughts, 

How  many  precious  feelings  of  man's  heart, 

How  many  loves,  how  many  gratitudes, 


MEROPE.  305 

Do  twenty  years  wear  out,  and  see  expire  ! 
Shall  they  not  wear  one  hatred  out  as  well  ? 

MEROPE. 

Thou  hast  forgot,  then,  who  I  am  who  hear, 

And  who  thou  art  who  speakest  to  me  ?     I 

Am  Merope,  thy  murder'd  master's  wife  ; 

And  thou  art  Polyphontes,  first  his  friend, 

And  then  ...  his  murderer.     These  offending  tears 

That  murder  moves ;  this  breach  that  thou  would'st 

close 
Was  by  that  murder  open'd ;  that  one  child 
(If  still,  indeed,  he  lives)  whom  thou  would'st  seat 
Upon  a  throne  not  thine  to  give,  is  heir, 
Because  thou  slewJst  his  brothers  with  their  father. 
Who  can  patch  union  here  ?     What  can  there  be 
But  everlasting  horror  'twixt  us  two, 
Gulfs  of  estranging  blood  ?     Across  that  chasm 
Who  can  extend  their  hands  ?  .  .  .   Maidens,  take  back 
These  offerings  home  !  our  rites  are  spoil'd  to-day. 

POLYPHONTES. 

Not  so  ;  let  these  Messenian  maidens  mark 

The  fear'd  and  blacken'd  ruler  of  their  race, 

Albeit  with  lips  unapt  to  self-excuse, 

Blow  off  the  spot  of  murder  from  his  name. — 

Murder  !  —  but  what  is  murder?     When  a  wretch 

For  private  gain  or  hatred  takes  a  life, 

We  call  it  murder,  crush  him,  brand  his  name. 

But  when,  for  some  great  public  cause,  an  arm 

Is,  without  love  or  hate,  austerely  raised 

Against  a  power  exempt  from  common  checks, 

Dangerous  to  all,  to  be  but  thus  annull'd  — 


306  MEROPE. 

Ranks  any  man  with  murder  such  an  act  ? 

With  grievous  deeds,  perhaps ;  with  murder,  no  ! 

Find  then  such  cause,  the  charge  of  murder  falls  — 

Be  judge  thyself  if  it  abound  not  here. 

All  know  how  weak  the  eagle,  Heracles, 

Soaring  from  his  death-pile  on  (Eta,  left 

His  puny,  callow  eaglets  ;  and  what  trials  — 

Infirm  protectors,  dubious  oracles 

Construed  awry,  misplann'd  invasions  —  wore 

Three  generations  of  his  offspring  out ; 

Hardly  the  fourth,  with  grievous  loss,  regain'd 

Their  fathers'  realm,  this  isle,  from  Pelops  named. 

Who  made  that  triumph,  though  deferr'd,  secure? 

Who,  but  the  kinsmen  of  the  royal  brood 

Of  Heracles,  scarce  Heracleidas  less 

Than  they?  these,  and  the  Dorian  lords,  whose  king 

yEgimius  gave  our  outcast  house  a  home 

When  Thebes,  when  Athens  dared  not ;  who  in  arms 

Thrice  issued  with  us  from  their  pastoral  vales, 

And  shed  their  blood  like  water  in  our  cause  ? 

Such  were  the  dispossessors  ;  of  what  stamp 

Were  they  we  dispossessed?  —  of  us  I  speak, 

Who  to  Messenia  with  thy  husband  came  ; 

I  speak  not  now  of  Argos,  where  his  brother, 

Not  now  of  Sparta,  where  his  nephews  reign'd.  — 

What  we  found  here  were  tribes  of  fame  obscure, 

Much  turbulence,  and  little  constancy, 

Precariously  ruled  by  foreign  lords 

From  the  ^Eolian  stock  of  Neleus  sprung, 

A  house  once  great,  now  dwindling  in  its  sons. 

Such  were  the  conquer'd,  such  the  conquerors  ;  who 

Had  most  thy  husband's  confidence  ?     Consult 

His  acts  !  the  wife  he  chose  was  —  full  of  virtues  — 

But  an  Arcadian  princess,  more  akin 


MEROPE.  307 

To  his  new  subjects  than  to  us ;  his  friends 

Were  the  Messenian  chiefs ;  the  laws  he  framed 

Were  aim'd  at  their  promotion,  our  decline. 

And,  finally,  this  land,  then  half-subdued, 

Which  from  one  central  city's  guarded  seat 

As  from  a  fastness  in  the  rocks  our  scant 

Handful  of  Dorian  conquerors  might  have  curb'd, 

He  parcell'd  out  in  five  confederate  states, 

Sowing  his  victors  thinly  through  them  all, 

Mere  prisoners,  meant  or  not,  among  our  foes. 

If  this  was  fear  of  them,  it  shamed  the  king  ; 

If  jealousy  of  us,  it  shamed  the  man. 

Long  we  refrain'd  ourselves,  submitted  long, 

Construed  his  acts  indulgently,  revered, 

Though  found  perverse,  the  blood  of  Heracles ; 

Reluctantly  the  rest  —  but,  against  all, 

One  voice  preach'd  patience,  and  that  voice  was  mine  ! 

At  last  it  reach'd  us,  that  he,  still  mistrustful, 

Deeming,  as  tyrants  deem,  our  silence  hate, 

Unadulating  grief  conspiracy, 

Had  to  this  city,  Stenyclaros,  call'd 

A  general  assemblage  of  the  realm, 

With  compact  in  that  concourse  to  deliver, 

For  death,  his  ancient  to  his  new-made  friends. 

Patience  was  thenceforth  self-destruction.     I, 

I  his  chief  kinsman,  I  his  pioneer 

And  champion  to  the  throne,  I  honoring  most 

Of  men  the  line  of  Heracles,  preferr'd 

The  many  of  that  lineage  to  the  one  ; 

What  his  foes  dared  not,  I,  his  lover,  dared ; 

I  at  that  altar,  where  mid  shouting  crowds 

He  sacrificed,  our  ruin  in  his  heart, 

To  Zeus,  before  he  struck  his  blow,  struck  mine  — 

Struck  once,  and  awed  his  mob,  and  saved  this  realm. 


308  ME  ROPE. 

Murder  let  others  call  this,  if  they  will ; 
I,  self-defence  and  righteous  execution. 

MEROPE. 

Alas,  how  fair  a  color  can  his  tongue, 

Who  self-exculpates,  lend  to  foulest  deeds  ! 

Thy  trusting  lord  didst  thou,  his  servant,  slay  ; 

Kinsman,  thou  slew'st  thy  kinsman  ;  friend,  thy  friend - 

This  were  enough  ;  but  let  me  tell  thee,  too, 

Thou  hadst  no  cause,  as  feign'd,  in  his  misrule. 

For  ask  at  Argos,  asked  in  Lacedsemon, 

Whose  people,  when  the  Heracleidae  came, 

Were  hunted  out,  and  to  Achaia  fled, 

Whether  is  better,  to  abide  alone, 

A  wolfish  band,  in  a  dispeopled  realm, 

Or  conquerors  with  conquer'd  to  unite 

Into  one  puissant  folk,  as  he  design'd? 

These  sturdy  and  unworn  Messenian  tribes, 

Who  shook  the  fierce  Neleidse  on  their  throne, 

Who  to  the  invading  Dorians  stretch'd  a  hand, 

And  half  bestow'd,  half  yielded  up  their  soil  — 

He  would  not  let  his  savage  chiefs  alight, 

A  cloud  of  vultures,  on  this  vigorous  race, 

Ravin  a  little  while  in  spoil  and  blood, 

Then,  gorged  and  helpless,  be  assail'd  and  slain. 

He  would  have  saved  you  from  your  furious  selves. 

Not  in  abhorr'd  estrangement  let  you  stand  ; 

He  would  have  mix'd  you  with  your  friendly  foes, 

Foes  dazzled  with  your  prowess,  well  inclined 

To  reverence  your  lineage,  more,  to  obey ; 

So  would  have  built  you,  in  a  few  short  years, 

A  just,  therefore  a  safe,  supremacy. 

For  well  he  knew,  what  you,  his  chiefs,  did  not  — 

How  of  all  human  rules  the  over-tense 


ME  ROPE. 


309 


Are  apt  to  snap ;  the  easy-stretch'd  endure 
O  gentle  wisdom,  little  understood  ! 
O  arts  above  the  vulgar  tyrant's  reach  ! 

0  policy  too  subtle  far  for  sense 
Of  heady,  masterful,  injurious  men  ! 

This  good  he  meant  you,  and  for  this  he  died  ! 

Yet  not  for  this  —  else  might  thy  crime  in  part 

Be  error  deem'd  —  but  that  pretence  is  vain. 

For,  if  ye  slew  him  for  supposed  misrule, 

Injustice  to  his  kin  and  Dorian  friends, 

Why  with  the  offending  father  did  ye  slay 

Two  unoffending  babes,  his  innocent  sons? 

Why  not  on  them  have  placed  the  forfeit  crown, 

Ruled  in  their  name,  and  train'd  them  to  your  will? 

Had  they  misruled  ?  had  they  forgot  their  friends, 

Forsworn  their  blood?  ungratefully  had  they 

Preferr'd  Messenian  serfs  to  Dorian  lords? 

No  !  but  to  thy  ambition  their  poor  lives 

Were  bar  —  and  this,  too,  was  their  father's  crime. 

That  thou  might'st  reign  he  died,  not  for  his  fault 

Even  fancied ;  and  his  death  thou  wroughtest  chief ! 

For,  if  the  other  lords  desired  his  fall 

Hotlier  than  thou,  and  were  by  thee  kept  back, 

Why  dost  thou  only  profit  by  his  death  ? 

Thy  crown  condemns  thee,  while  thy  tongue  absolves. 

And  now  to  me  thou  tenderest  friendly  league, 

And  to  my  son  reversion  to  thy  throne  ! 

Short  answer  is  sufficient ;  league  with  thee, 

For  me  I  deem  such  impious ;  and  for  him 

Exile  abroad  more  safe  than  heirship  here. 

POLYPHONTES. 

1  ask  thee  not  to  approve  thy  husband's  death, 
No,  nor  expect  thee  to  admit  the  grounds, 


3IO  ME  ROPE. 

In  reason  good,  which  justified  my  deed. 
With  women  the  heart  argues,  not  the  mind. 
But,  for  thy  children's  death,  I  stand  assoil'd  — 
I  saved  them,  meant  them  honor ;  but  thy  friends 
Rose,  and  with  fire  and  sword  assailed  my  house 
By  night ;  in  that  blind  tumult  they  were  slain. 
To  chance  impute  their  deaths,  then,  not  to  me. 

MEROPE. 

Such  chance  as  kill'd  the  father,  kill'd  the  sons. 

POLYPHONTES. 

One  son  at  least  I  spared,  for  still  he  lives. 

MEROPE. 

Tyrants  think  him  they  murder  not  they  spare. 

POLYPHONTES. 

Not  much  a  tyrant  thy  free  speech  displays  me. 

MEROPE. 

Thy  shame  secures  my  freedom,  not  thy  will. 

POLYPHONTES. 

Shame  rarely  checks  the  genuine  tyrant's  will. 

MEROPE. 

One  merit,  then,  thou  hast ;  exult  in  that. 

POLYPHONTES. 

Thou  standest  out,  I  see,  repellest  peace. 

MEROPE. 

Thy  sword  repell'd  it  long  ago,  not  I. 


ME  ROPE. 


311 


POLYPHONTES. 

Doubtless  thou  reckonest  on  the  help  of  friends. 

MEROPE. 

Not  help  of  men,  although,  perhaps,  of  Gods. 

POLYPHONTES. 

What  Gods  ?  the  Gods  of  concord,  civil  weal  ? 

MEROPE. 

No !  the  avenging  Gods,  who  punish  crime. 

POLYPHONTES. 

Beware  !  from  thee  upbraidings  I  receive 
With  pity,  nay,  with  reverence  ;  yet,  beware  ! 
I  know,  I  know  how  hard  it  is  to  think 
That  right,  that  conscience  pointed  to  a  deed, 
Where  interest  seems  to  have  enjoin'd  it  too. 
Most  men  are  led  by  interest ;  and  the  few 
Who  are  not,  expiate  the  general  sin, 
Involved  in  one  suspicion  with  the  base. 
Dizzy  the  path  and  perilous  the  way 
Which  in  a  deed  like  mine  a  just  man  treads, 
But  it  is  sometimes  trodden,  oh  !  believe  it. 
Yet  how  canst  thou  believe  it  ?  therefore  thou 
Hast  all  impunity.     Yet,  lest  thy  friends, 
Embolden'd  by  my  lenience,  think  it  fear, 
And  count  on  like  impunity,  and  rise, 
And  have  to  thank  thee  for  a  fall,  beware  ! 
To  rule  this  kingdom  I  intend ;  with  sway 
Clement,  if  may  be,  but  to  rule  it —  there 
Expect  no  wavering,  no  retreat,  no  change. 
And  now  I  leave  thee  to  these  rites,  esteem'd 
Pious,  but  impious,  surely,  if  their  scope 


312  MEN  OPE. 

Be  to  foment  old  memories  of  wrath. 

Pray,  as  thou  pour'st  libations  on  this  tomb, 

To  be  deliver'd  from  thy  foster'd  hate, 

Unjust  suspicion,  and  erroneous  fear. 

[Polyphontes  goes  into  the  palace.    The  Chorus  and 
Merope  approach  the  tomb  with  their  offerings. 

THE   CHORUS. 

Draw,  draw  near  to  the  tomb !  strophe. 

Lay  honey-cakes  on  its  marge, 

Pour  the  libation  of  milk, 

Deck  it  with  garlands  of  flowers. 

Tears  fall  thickly  the  while  ! 

Behold,  O  King  from  the  dark 

House  of  the  grave,  what  we  do. 

O  Arcadian  hills,  antistrophe. 

Send  us  the  Youth  whom  ye  hide, 

Girt  with  his  coat  for  the  chase, 

With  the  low  broad  hat  of  the  tann'd 

Hunter  o'ershadowing  his  brow  ; 

Grasping  firm,  in  his  hand 

Advanced,  two  javelins,  not  now 

Dangerous  alone  to  the  deer  ! 

MEROPE. 

What  shall  I  bear,  O  lost  str.  i. 

Husband  and  King,  to  thy  grave?  — 

Pure  libations,  and  fresh 

Flowers?     But  thou,  in  the  gloom, 

Discontented,  perhaps, 

Demandest  vengeance,  not  grief? 

Sternly  requirest  a  man, 

Light  to  spring  up  to  thy  house? 


ME  ROPE.  313 


THE   CHORUS. 


Vengeance,  O  Queen,  is  his  due,  sir.  2. 

His  most  just  prayer ;  yet  his  house  — 

If  that  might  soothe  him  below  — 

Prosperous,  mighty,  came  back 

In  the  third  generation,  the  way 

Order'd  by  Fate,  to  their  home  ; 

And  now,  glorious,  secure, 

Fill  the  wealth-giving  thrones 

Of  their  heritage,  Pelops'  isle. 


MEROPE. 

Suffering  sent  them,  Death  ant.  1. 

March 'd  with  them,  Hatred  and  Strife 

Met  them  entering  their  halls. 

For  from  the  day  when  the  first 

Heracleidse  received 

That  Delphic  hest  to  return, 

What  hath  involved  them,  but  blind 

Error  on  error,  and  blood  ? 


THE   CHORUS. 

Truly  I  hear  of  a  Maid  ant.  2. 

Of  that  stock  born,  who  bestow'd 

Her  blood  that  so  she  might  make 

Victory  sure  to  her  race, 

When  the  fight  hung  in  doubt !  but  she  now, 

Honor'd  and  sung  of  by  all, 

Far  on  Marathon  plain, 

Gives  her  name  to  the  spring 

Macaria,  blessed  Child. 


3M 


ME  ROPE. 


MEROPE. 


She  led  the  way  of  death.  sir.  3. 

And  the  plain  of  Tegea, 

And  the  grave  of  Orestes  — 

Where,  in  secret  seclusion 

Of  his  unreveal'd  tomb, 

Sleeps  Agamemnon's  unhappy, 

Matricidal,  world-famed, 

Seven-cubit-statured  son  — 

Sent  forth  Echemus,  the  victor,  the  king, 

By  whose  hand,  at  the  Isthmus, 

At  the  fate-denied  straits, 

Fell  the  eldest  of  the  sons  of  Heracles, 

Hyllus,  the  chief  of  his  house. 

Brother  follow'd  sister 

The  all-wept  way. 

THE   CHORUS. 

Yes  ;  but  his  seed  still,  wiser-counsell'd, 
Sail'd  by  the  fate-meant  Gulf  to  their  conquest  — 
Slew  their  enemies'  king,  Tisamenus. 
Wherefore  accept  that  happier  omen  ! 
Yet  shall  restorer  appear  to  the  race. 

MEROPE. 

Three  brothers  won  the  field,  ant.  3. 

And  to  two  did  Destiny 

Give  the  thrones  that  they  conquer'd. 

But  the  third,  what  delays  him 

From  his  unattain'd  crown  ?  .  .  . 

Ah  Pylades  and  Electra, 

Ever  faithful,  untired, 

Jealous,  blood-exacting  friends  ! 


MEROPE.  315 

Your  sons  leap  upon  the  foe  of  your  kin, 

In  the  passes  of  Delphi, 

In  the  temple-built  gorge  ! 

There  the  youngest  of  the  band  of  conquerors 

Perish'd,  in  sight  of  the  goal. 

Thrice  son  follow'd  sire 

The  all-wept  way. 

THE   CHORUS. 

Thou  tellest  the  fate  of  the  last  sir.  4. 

Of  the  three  Heracleidas. 

Not  of  him,  of  Cresphontes  thou  shared'st  the  lot  ! 

A  king,  a  king  was  he  while  he  lived, 

Swaying  the  sceptre  with  predestined  hand  ; 

And  now,  minister  loved, 

Holds  rule. 

MEROPE. 

Ah  me  .  .  .     Ah  .  .  . 

THE  CHORUS. 

For  the  awful  Monarchs  below. 

MEROPE. 

Thou  touchest  the  worst  of  my  ills.  sir.  5. 

Oh  had  he  fallen  of  old 

At  the  Isthmus,  in  fight  with  his  foes, 

By  Achaian,  Arcadian  spear  ! 

Then  had  his  sepulchre  risen 

On  the  high  sea-bank,  in  the  sight 

Of  either  Gulf,  and  remain'd 

All-regarded  afar, 

Noble  memorial  of  worth 

Of  a  valiant  Chief,  to  his  own. 


316  MEROPE. 

THE   CHORUS. 

There  rose  up  a  cry  in  the  streets  ant.  4. 

From  the  terrified  people. 

From  the  altar  of  Zeus,  from  the  crowd,  came  a  wail. 

A  blow,  a  blow  was  struck,  and  he  fell, 

Sullying  his  garment  with  dark-streaming  blood ; 

While  stood  o'er  him  a  Form  — 

Some  Form 

MEROPE. 

Ah  me  .  .  .     Ah  .  .  . 

THE   CHORUS. 

Of  a  dreadful  Presence  of  fear. 

MEROPE. 

More  piercing  the  second  cry  rang,  ant.  5. 

Wail'd  from  the  palace  within, 

From  the  Children.  .  .  .     The  Fury  to  them, 

Fresh  from  their  father,  draws  near. 

Ah  bloody  axe  !  dizzy  blows  ! 

In  these  ears,  they  thunder,  they  ring, 

These  poor  ears,  still !  and  these  eyes 

Night  and  day  see  them  fall, 

Fiery  phantoms  of  death, 

On  the  fair,  curl'd  heads  of  my  sons. 

THE   CHORUS. 

Not  to  thee  only  hath  come  sir.  6. 

Sorrow,  O  Queen,  of  mankind. 

Had  not  Electra  to  haunt 

A  palace  defiled  by  a  death  unavenged, 


MEROPE.  317 

For  years,  in  silence,  devouring  her  heart? 

But  her  nursling,  her  hope,  came  at  last. 

Thou,  too,  rearest  in  hope, 

Far  'mid  Arcadian  hills, 

Somewhere,  for  vengeance,  a  champion,  a  light. 

Soon,  soon  shall  Zeus  bring  him  home  ! 

Soon  shall  he  dawn  on  this  land  ! 

MEROPE. 

Him  in  secret,  in  tears,  str.  7. 

Month  after  month,  I  await 

Vainly.     For  he,  in  the  glens 

Of  Lycasus  afar, 

A  gladsome  hunter  of  deer, 

Basks  in  his  morning  of  youth, 

Spares  not  a  thought  to  his  home. 

THE   CHORUS. 

Give  not  thy  heart  to  despair.  ant.  6. 

No  lamentation  can  loose 

Prisoners  of  death  from  the  grave ; 

But  Zeus,  who  accounteth  thy  quarrel  his  own, 

Still  rules,  still  watches,  and  numb'reth  the  hours 

Till  the  sinner,  the  vengeance,  be  ripe. 

Still,  by  Acheron  stream, 

Terrible  Deities  throned 

Sit,  and  eye  grimly  the  victim  unscourged. 

Still,  still  the  Dorian  boy, 

Exiled,  remembers  his  home. 

MEROPE. 

Him  if  high-ruling  Zeus  ant.  7. 

Bring  to  me  safe,  let  the  rest 


318  ME  ROPE. 

Go  as  it  will !     But  if  this 
Clash  with  justice,  the  Gods 
Forgive  my  folly,  and  work 
Vengeance  on  sinner  and  sin  — 
Only  to  me  give  my  child  ! 

THE   CHORUS. 

Hear  us  and  help  us,  Shade  of  our  King  !     sir.  8. 

MEROPE. 

A  return,  O  Father  !  give  to  thy  boy  !  sir.  9. 

THE   CHORUS. 

Send  an  avenger,  Gods  of  the  dead  !  ant.  8. 

MEROPE. 

An  avenger  I  ask  not —  send  me  my  son  !   ant.  9. 

THE   CHORUS. 

O  Queen,  for  an  avenger  to  appear, 
Thinking  that  so  I  pray'd  aright,  I  pray'd ; 
If  I  pray'd  wrongly,  I  revoke  the  prayer. 

MEROPE. 

Forgive  me,  maidens,  if  I  seem  too  slack 
In  calling  vengeance  on  a  murderer's  head. 
Impious  I  deem  the  alliance  which  he  asks, 
Requite  him  words  severe  for  seeming  kind, 
And  righteous,  if  he  falls,  I  count  his  fall. 
With  this,  to  those  unbribed  inquisitors 
Who  in  man's  inmost  bosom  sit  and  judge, 
The  true  avengers  these,  I  leave  his  deed, 


ME  ROPE.  319 

By  him  shown  fair,  but,  I  believe,  most  foul. 

If  these  condemn  him,  let  them  pass  his  doom  ! 

That  doom  obtain  effect,  from  Gods  or  men  ! 

So  be  it ;  yet  will  that  more  solace  bring 

To  the  chafed  heart  of  Justice  than  to  mine. 

To  hear  another  tumult  in  these  streets, 

To  have  another  murder  in  these  halls, 

To  see  another  mighty  victim  bleed  — 

Small  comfort  offers  for  a  woman  there  ! 

A  woman,  O  my  friends,  has  one  desire  : 

To  see  secure,  to  live  with,  those  she  loves. 

Can  vengeance  give  me  back  the  murdered  ?  no  ! 

Can  it  bring  home  my  child  ?     Ah,  if  it  can, 

I  pray  the  Furies'  ever-restless  band, 

And  pray  the  Gods,  and  pray  the  all-seeing  sun  : 

"  Sun,  who  careerest  through  the  height  of  Heaven, 

When  o'er  the  Arcadian  forests  thou  art  come, 

And  seest  my  stripling  hunter  there  afield, 

Put  tightness  in  thy  gold-embossed  rein, 

And  check  thy  fiery  steeds,  and,  leaning  back, 

Throw  him  a  pealing  word  of  summons  down, 

To  come,  a  late  avenger,  to  the  aid 

Of  this  poor  soul  who  bare  him,  and  his  sire." 

If  this  will  bring  him  back,  be  this  my  prayer  ! 

But  Vengeance  travels  in  a  dangerous  way, 

Double  of  issue,  full  of  pits  and  snares 

For  all  who  pass,  pursuers  and  pursued  — 

That  way  is  dubious  for  a  mother's  prayer. 

Rather  on  thee  I  call,  Husband  beloved  — 

May  Hermes,  herald  of  the  dead,  convey 

My  words  below  to  thee,  and  make  thee  hear  — 

Bring  back  our  son  !  if  may  be,  without  blood  ! 

Install  him  in  thy  throne,  still  without  blood  ! 

Grant  him  to  reign  there  wise  and  just  like  thee, 


320  ME  ROPE. 

More  fortunate  than  thee,  more  fairly  judged  ! 
This  for  our  son  ;  and  for  myself  I  pray, 
Soon,  having  once  beheld  him,  to  descend 
Into  the  quiet  gloom,  where  thou  art  now. 
These  words  to  thine  indulgent  ear,  thy  wife, 
I  send,  and  these  libations  pour  the  while. 

[  They  make  their  offerings  at  the  tomb.     Merope  then 
turns  to  go  towards  the  palace. 

THE   CHORUS. 

The  dead  hath  now  his  offerings  duly  paid. 
But  whither  go'st  thou  hence,  O  Queen,  away? 

MEROPE. 

To  receive  Areas,  who  to-day  should  come, 
Bringing  me  of  my  boy  the  annual  news. 

THE   CHORUS. 

No  certain  news  if  like  the  rest  it  run. 

MEROPE. 

Certain  in  this,  that  'tis  uncertain  still. 

THE   CHORUS. 

What  keeps  him  in  Arcadia  from  return? 

MEROPE. 

His  grandsire  and  his  uncles  fear  the  risk. 

THE   CHORUS. 

Of  what?  it  lies  with  them  to  make  risk  none. 


ME  ROPE.  321 

MEROPE. 

Discovery  of  a  visit  ma'de  by  stealth. 

THE   CHORUS. 

With  arms  then  they  should  send  him,  not  by  stealth. 

MEROPE. 

With  arms  they  dare  not,  and  by  stealth  they  fear. 

THE    CHORUS. 

I  doubt  their  caution  little  suits  their  ward. 

MEROPE. 

The  heart  of  youth  I  know ;  that  most  I  fear. 

THE   CHORUS. 

I  augur  thou  wilt  hear  some  bold  resolve. 

MEROPE. 

I  dare  not  wish  it ;  but,  at  least,  to  hear 

That  my  son  still  survives,  in  health,  in  bloom; 

To  hear  that  still  he  loves,  still  longs  for,  me, 

Yet,  with  a  light  uncareworn  spirit,  turns 

Quick  from  distressful  thought,  and  floats  in  joy  — 

Thus  much  from  Areas,  my  old  servant  true, 

Who  saved  him  from  these  murderous  halls  a  babe, 

And  since  has  fondly  watch'd  him  night  and  day 

Save  for  this  annual  charge,  I  hope  to  hear. 

If  this  be  all,  I  know  not ;  but  I  know, 

These  many  years  I  live  for  this  alone. 

[Merove  goes  in. 


322  MEROPE. 

THE   CHORUS. 

Much  is  there  which  the  sea  sir.  i. 

Conceals  from  man,  who  cannot  plumb  its  depths. 

Air  to  his  unwing'd  form  denies  a  way, 

And  keeps  its  liquid  solitudes  unsealed. 

Even  earth,  whereon  he  treads, 

So  feeble  is  his  march,  so  slow, 

Holds  countless  tracts  untrod. 

But  more  than  all  unplumb'd,  ant.  i. 

Unsealed,  untrodden,  is  the  heart  of  man. 

More  than  all  secrets  hid,  the  way  it  keeps. 

Nor  any  of  our  organs  so  obtuse, 

Inaccurate,  and  frail, 

As  those  wherewith  we  try  to  test 

Feelings  and  motives  there. 

Yea,  and  not  only  have  we  not  explored  str.  2. 

That  wide  and  various  world,  the  heart  of  others, 
But  even  our  own  heart,  that  narrow  world 
Bounded  in  our  own  breast,  we  hardly  know, 
Of  our  own  actions  dimly  trace  the  causes. 
Whether  a  natural  obscureness,  hiding 
That  region  in  perpetual  cloud, 
Or  our  own  want  of  effort,  be  the  bar. 

Therefore  —  while     acts     are     from    their    motives 
judged,  ant.  2. 

And  to  one  act  many  most  unlike  motives, 
This  pure,  that  guilty,  may  have  each  impell'd  — 
Power  fails  us  to  try  clearly  if  that  cause 
Assign'd  us  by  the  actor  be  the  true  one  ; 
Power  fails  the  man  himself  to  fix  distinctly 
The  cause  which  drew  him  to  his  deed, 
And  stamp  himself,  thereafter,  bad  or  good. 


ME  HOPE.  323 

The  most  are  bad,  wise  men  have  said.  sir.  3. 

Let  the  best  rule,  they  say  again. 

The  best,  then,  to  dominion  hath  the  right. 

Rights  unconceded  and  denied, 

Surely,  if  rights,  may  be  by  force  asserted  — 

May  be,  nay  should,  if  for  the  general  weal. 

The  best,  then,  to  the  throne  may  carve  his  way, 

And  strike  opposers  down, 

Free  from  all  guilt  of  lawlessness, 

Or  selfish  lust  of  personal  power  ; 

Bent  only  to  serve  virtue, 

Bent  to  diminish  wrong. 

And  truly,  in  this  ill- ruled  world,  ant.  3. 

Well  sometimes  may  the  good  desire 

To  give  to  virtue  her  dominion  due  ! 

Well  may  he  long  to  interrupt 

The  reign  of  folly,  usurpation  ever, 

Though  fenced  by  sanction  of  a  thousand  years  ! 

Well  thirst  to  drag  the  wrongful  ruler  down ; 

Well  purpose  to  pen  back 

Into  the  narrow  path  of  right 

The  ignorant,  headlong  multitude, 

Who  blindly  follow,  ever, 

Blind  leaders,  to  their  bane  ! 

But  who  can  say,  without  a  fear  :  str.  4. 

That  best,  who  ought  to  rule,  am  I; 
The  mob,  who  ought  to  obey,  are  these  ; 
I  the  one  righteous,  they  the  many  bad? 
Who,  without  check  of  conscience,  can  aver 
That  he  to  power  makes  way  by  arms, 
Sheds  blood,  imprisons,  banishes,  attaints, 
Commits  all  deeds  the  guilty  oftenest  do, 


324  ATE  ROPE. 

Without  a  single  guilty  thought, 

Arm'd  for  right  only,  and  the  general  good  ? 

Therefore,  with  censure  unallay'd,  ant.  4. 

Therefore,  with  unexcepting  ban, 

Zeus  and  pure-thoughted  Justice  brand 

Imperious  self-asserting  violence  ; 

Sternly  condemn  the  too  bold  man,  who  dares 

Elect  himself  Heaven's  destined  arm  ; 

And,  knowing  well  man's  inmost  heart  infirm, 

However  noble  the  committer  be, 

His  grounds  however  specious  shown, 

Turn  with  averted  eyes  from  deeds  of  blood. 

Thus,  though  a  woman,  I  was  school'd  epode. 

By  those  whom  I  revere. 

Whether  I  learnt  their  lessons  well, 

Or,  having  learnt  them,  well  apply 

To  what  hath  in  this  house  befall'n, 

If  in  the  event  be  any  proof, 

The  event  will  quickly  show. 

[/Epytus  comes  in. 

^EPYTUS. 

Maidens,  assure  me  if  they  told  me  true 
Who  told  me  that  the  royal  house  was  here. 

THE   CHORUS. 

Rightly  they  told  thee,  and  thou  art  arrived. 

jEPYTUS. 

Here,  then,  it  is,  where  Polyphontes  dwells? 

THE   CHORUS. 

He  doth  ;  thou  hast  both  house  and  master  right. 


ME  ROPE.  325 

^PYTUS. 

Might  some  one  straight  inform  him  he  is  sought  ? 

THE   CHORUS. 

Inform  him  that  thyself,  for  here  he  comes. 

[Polyphonies  comes  forth,  with  Attendants  and  Guards. 

^EPYTUS. 

O  King,  all  hail !     I  come  with  weighty  news ; 
Most  likely,  grateful ;  but,  in  all  case,  sure. 

POLYPHONTES. 

Speak  them,  that  I  may  judge  their  kind  myself. 

jEPYTUS. 

Accept  them  in  one  word,  for  good  or  bad : 
^Epytus,  the  Messenian  prince,  is  dead  ! 

POLYPHONTES. 

Dead!  —  and  when  died  he?  where?   and  by  what 

hand? 
And  who  art  thou,  who  bringest  me  such  news  ? 

jEPYTUS. 

He  perish'd  in  Arcadia,  where  he  dwelt 
With  Cypselus ;  and  two  days  since  he  died. 
One  of  the  train  of  Cypselus  am  I. 

POLYPHONTES. 

Instruct  me  of  the  manner  of  his  death. 

.EPYTUS. 

That  will  I  do,  and  to  this  end  I  came. 
For,  being  of  like  age,  of  birth  not  mean, 


326  ME  ROPE. 

The  son  of  an  Arcadian  noble,  I 

Was  chosen  his  companion  from  a  boy  ; 

And  on  the  hunting-rambles  which  his  heart, 

Unquiet,  drove  him  ever  to  pursue 

Through  all  the  lordships  of  the  Arcadian  dales, 

From  chief  to  chief,  I  wander'd  at  his  side, 

The  captain  of  his  squires,  and  his  guard. 

On  such  a  hunting-journey,  three  morns  since, 

With  beaters,  hounds,  and  huntsmen,  he  and  I 

Set  forth  from  Tegea,  the  royal  town. 

The  prince  at  start  seem'd  sad,  but  his  regard 

Clear'd  with  blithe  travel  and  the  morning  air. 

We  rode  from  Tegea,  through  the  woods  of  oaks, 

Past  Arne  spring,  where  Rhea  gave  the  babe 

Poseidon  to  the  shepherd-boys  to  hide 

From  Saturn's  search  among  the  new-yean'd  lambs, 

To  Mantineia,  with  its  unbaked  walls ; 

Thence,  by  the  Sea-God's  Sanctuary  and  the  tomb 

Whither  from  wintry  Msenalus  were  brought 

The  bones  of  Areas,  whence  our  race  is  named, 

On,  to  the  marshy  Orchomenian  plain, 

And  the  Stone  Coffins ;  —  then,  by  Caphyoe  Cliffs, 

To  Pheneos  with  its  craggy  citadel. 

There,  with  the  chief  of  that  hill-town,  we  lodged 

One  night ;  and  the  next  day  at  dawn  fared  on 

By  the  Three  Fountains  and  the  Adder's  Hill 

To' the  Stymphalian  Lake,  our  journey's  end, 

To  draw  the  coverts  on  Cyllene's  side. 

There,  on  a  high  green  spur  which  bathes  its  point 

Far  in  the  liquid  lake,  we  sate,  and  drew 

Cates  from  our  hunters'  pouch,  Arcadian  fare, 

Sweet  chestnuts,  barley-cakes,  and  boar's-flesh  dried  ; 

And  as  we  ate,  and  rested  there,  we  talk'd 

Of  places  we  had  pass'd,  sport  we  had  had, 


ME  ROPE.  327 

Of  beasts  of  chase  that  haunt  the  Arcadian  hills, 

Wild  hog,  and  bear,  and  mountain-deer,  and  roe ; 

Last,  of  our  quarters  with  the  Arcadian  chiefs. 

For  courteous  entertainment,  welcome  warm, 

Sad,  reverential  homage,  had  our  prince 

From  all,  for  his  great  lineage  and  his  woes ; 

All  which  he  own'd,  and  praised  with  grateful  mind. 

But  still  over  his  speech  a  gloom  there  hung, 

As  of  one  shadow'd  by  impending  death ; 

And  strangely,  as  we  talk'd,  he  would  apply 

The  story  of  spots  mention'd  to  his  own  ; 

Telling  us,  Arne  minded  him,  he  too 

Was  saved  a  babe,  but  to  a  life  obscure, 

Which  he,  the  seed  of  Heracles,  dragg'd  on 

Inglorious,  and  should  drop  at  last  unknown, 

Even  as  those  dead  unepitaph'd,  who  lie 

In  the  stone  coffins  at  Orchomenus. 

And,  then,  he  bade  remember  how  we  pass'd 

The  Mantinean  Sanctuary,  forbid 

To  foot  of  mortal,  where  his  ancestor, 

Named  /Epytus  like  him,  having  gone  in, 

Was  blinded  by  the  outgushing  springs  of  brine. 

Then,  turning  westward  to  the  Adder's  Hill  — 

Another  ancestor,  named,  too,  like  me, 

Died  0/  a  snake-bite,  said  he,  on  that  brow  ; 

Still  at  his  mountain-tomb  men  marvel,  built 

Where,  as  life  ebb'd,  his  bearers  laid  him  down. 

So  he  play'd  on ;  then  ended,  with  a  smile  : 

This  region  is  not  happy  for  my  race. 

We  cheer'd  him;  but,  that  moment,  from  the  copse 

By  the  lake-edge,  broke  the  sharp  cry  of  hounds ; 

The  prickers  shouted  that  the  stag  was  gone. 

We  sprang  upon  our  feet,  we  snatch'd  our  spears, 

We  bounded  down  the  swarded  slope,  we  plunged 


328  MEROPE. 

Through  the  dense  ilex-thickets  to  the  dogs. 

Far  in  the  woods  ahead  their  music  rang ; 

And  many  times  that  morn  we  coursed  in  ring 

The  forests  round  that  belt  Cyllene's  side ; 

Till  1,  thrown  out  and  tired,  came  to  halt 

On  that  same  spur  where  we  had  sate  at  morn. 

And  resting  there  to  breathe,  I  watch'd  the  chase  — 

Rare,  straggling  hunters,  foil'd  by  brake  and  crag, 

And  the  prince,  single,  pressing  on  the  rear 

Of  that  unflagging  quarry  and  the  hounds. 

Now  in  the  woods  far  down  I  saw  them  cross 

An  open  glade  ;  now  he  was  high  aloft 

On  some  tall  scar  fringed  with  dark  feathery  pines, 

Peering  to  spy  a  goat-track  down  the  cliff, 

Cheering  with  hand,  and  voice,  and  horn  his  dogs. 

At  last  the  cry  drew  to  the  water's  edge  — 

And  through  the  brushwood,  to  the  pebbly  strand, 

Broke,  black  with  sweat,  the  antler'd  mountain-stag, 

And  took  the  lake.     Two  hounds  alone  pursued, 

Then  came  the  prince  ;  he  shouted  and  plunged  in. 

—  There  is  a  chasm  rifted  in  the  base 

Of  that  unfooted  precipice,  whose  rock 

Walls  on  one  side  the  deep  Stymphalian  Lake ; 

There  the  lake-waters,  which  in  ages  gone 

Wash'd,  as  the  marks  upon  the  hills  still  show, 

All  the  Stymphalian  plain,  are  now  suck'd  down. 

A  headland,  with  one  aged  plane-tree  crown'd, 

Parts  from  this  cave-pierced  cliff  the  shelving  bay 

Where   first    the   chase   plunged    in ;    the    bay   is 

smooth, 
But  round  the  headland's  point  a  current  sets, 
Strong,  black,  tempestuous,  to  the  cavern-mouth. 
Stoutly,  under  the  headland's  lee,  they  swam  ; 
But  when  they  came  abreast  the  point,  the  race 


MEROPE.  329 

Caught  them    as  wind    takes    feathers,  whirl'd  them 

round 
Struggling  in  vain  to  cross  it,  swept  them  on, 
Stag,  dogs,  and  hunter,  to  the  yawning  gulph. 
All  this,  O  King,  not  piecemeal,  as  to  thee 
Now  told,  but  in  one  flashing  instant  pass'd. 
While  from  the  turf  whereon  I  lay  I  sprang 
And  took  three  strides,  quarry  and  dogs  were  gone; 
A  moment  more  —  I  saw  the  prince  turn  round 
Once  in  the  black  and  arrowy  race,  and  cast 
An  arm  aloft  for  help  ;  then  sweep  beneath 
The  low-brow'd  cavern-arch,  and  disappear. 
And  what  I  could,  I  did  —  to  call  by  cries 
Some  straggling  hunters  to  my  aid,  to  rouse 
Fishers  who  live  on  the  lake-side,  to  launch 
Boats,  and  approach,  near  as  we  dared,  the  chasm. 
But  of  the  prince  nothing  remain'd,  save  this, 
His  boar-spear's  broken  shaft,  back  on  the  lake 
Cast  by  the  rumbling  subterranean  stream  ; 
And  this,  at  landing  spied  by  us  and  saved, 
His  broad-brimm'd  hunter's  hat,  which,  in  the  bay, 
Where  first  the  stag  took  water,  floated  still. 
And  I  across  the  mountains  brought  with  haste 
To  Cypselus,  at  Basilis,  this  news  — 
Basilis,  his  new  city,  which  he  now 
Near  Lycosura  builds,  Lycaon's  town, 
First  city  founded  on  the  earth  by  men. 
He  to  thee  sends  me  on,  in  one  thing  glad, 
While  all  else  grieves  him,  that  his  grandchild's  death 
Extinguishes  distrust  'twixt  him  and  thee. 
But  I  from  our  deplored  mischance  learn  this  : 
The  man  who  to  untimely  death  is  doom'd, 
Vainly  you  hedge  him  from  the  assault  of  harm ; 
He  bears  the  seed  of  ruin  in  himself. 


330  ME  ROPE. 


THE   CHORUS. 

So  dies  the  last  shoot  of  our  royal  tree  ! 
Who  shall  tell  Merope  this  heavy  news? 

POLYPHONTES. 

Stranger,  this  news  thou  bringest  is  too  great 

For  instant  comment,  having  many  sides 

Of  import,  and  in  silence  best  received, 

Whether  it  turn  at  last  to  joy  or  woe. 

But  thou,  the  zealous  bearer,  hast  no  part 

In  what  it  hath  of  painful,  whether  now, 

First  heard,  or  in  its  future  issue  shown. 

Thou  for  thy  labor  hast  deserved  our  best 

Refreshment,  needed  by  thee,  as  I  judge, 

With  mountain-travel  and  night-watching  spent.  — 

To  the  guest-chamber  lead  him,  some  one  !  give 

All  entertainment  which  a  traveller  needs, 

And  such  as  fits  a  royal  house  to  show ; 

To  friends,  still  more,  and  laborers  in  our  cause. 

[Attendants  conduct  tEpytus  within  the  palace. 

THE   CHORUS. 

The  youth  is  gone  within  ;  alas  !  he  bears 

A  presence  sad  for  some  one  through  those  doors. 

POLYPHONTES. 

Admire  then,  maidens,  how  in  one  short  hour 
The  schemes,  pursued  in  vain  for  twenty  years, 
Are  —  by  a  stroke,  though  undesired,  complete  — 
Crown'd  with  success,  not  in  my  way,  but  Heaven's! 
This  at  a  moment,  too,  when  I  had  urged 
A  last,  long-cherish'd  project,  in  my  aim 


ME  ROPE.  331 

Of  peace,  and  been  repulsed  with  hate  and  scorn. 

Fair  terms  of  reconcilement,  equal  rule, 

I  offer'd  to  my  foes,  and  they  refused ; 

Worse  terms  than  mine   they  have  obtain'd  from 

Heaven. 
Dire  is  this  blow  for  Merope ;  and  I 
Wish'd,  truly  wish'd,  solution  to  our  broil 
Other  than  by  this  death ;  but  it  hath  come  ! 
I  speak  no  word  of  boast,  but  this  I  say  : 
A  private  loss  here  founds  a  nation's  peace. 

[POLYPHONTES  goes  out. 
THE   CHORUS. 

Peace,  who  tarriest  too  long ;  str. 

Peace,  with  delight  in  thy  train  ; 

Come,  come  back  to  our  prayer  ! 

Then  shall  the  revel  again 

Visit  our  streets,  and  the  sound 

Of  the  harp  be  heard  with  the  pipe, 

When  the  flashing  torches  appear 

In  the  marriage-train  coming  on, 

With  dancing  maidens  and  boys  — 

While  the  matrons  come  to  the  doors, 

And  the  old  men  rise  from  their  bench, 

When  the  youths  bring  home  the  bride. 

Not  condemn'd  by  my  voice  ant. 

He  who  restores  thee  shall  be, 

Not  unfavor'd  by  Heaven. 

Surely  no  sinner  the  man, 

Dread  though  his  acts,  to  whose  hand 

Such  a  boon  to  bring  hath  been  given. 

Let  her  come,  fair  Peace  !  let  her  come  ! 

But  the  demons  long  nourish'd  here, 


332  MRROPE. 

Murder,  Discord,  and  Hate, 
In  the  stormy  desolate  waves 
Of  the  Thracian  Sea  let  her  leave, 
Or  the  howling  outermost  main  ! 

[Merope  comes  forth. 

MEROPE. 

A  whisper  through  the  palace  flies  of  one 

Arrived  from  Tegea  with  weighty  news  ; 

And  I  came,  thinking  to  find  Areas  here. 

Ye  have  not  left  this  gate,  which  he  must  pass ; 

Tell  me  —  hath  one  not  come  ?  or,  worse  mischance, 

Come,  but  been  intercepted  by  the  King? 

THE   CHORUS. 

A  messenger,  sent  from  Arcadia  here, 
Arrived,  and  of  the  King  had  speech  but  now. 

MEROPE. 

Ah  me  !  the  wrong  expectant  got  his  news. 

THE   CHORUS. 

The  message  brought  was  for  the  King  design'd. 

MEROPE. 

How  so?  was  Areas  not  the  messenger? 

THE    CHORUS. 

A  younger  man,  and  of  a  different  name. 

MEROPE. 

And  what  Arcadian  news  had  he  to  tell? 


ME  ROPE.  333 

THE   CHORUS. 

Learn  that  from  other  lips,  O  Queen,  than  mine. 

MEROPE. 

He  kept  his  tale,  then,  for  the  King  alone  ? 

THE   CHORUS. 

His  tale  was  meeter  for  that  ear  than  thine. 

MEROPE. 

Why  dost  thou  falter,  and  make  half  reply? 

THE   CHORUS. 

O  thrice  unhappy,  how  I  groan  thy  fate  ! 

MEROPE. 

Thou  frightenest  and  confound'st  me  by  thy  words. 
O  were  but  Areas  come,  all  would  be  well ! 

THE   CHORUS. 

If  so,  all's  well :  for  look,  the  old  man  speeds 
Up  from  the  city  tow'rd  this  gated  hill. 

[Arcas  comes  in. 
MEROPE. 

Not  with  the  failing  breath  and  foot  of  age 

My  faithful  follower  comes.     Welcome,  old  friend  ! 

ARCAS. 

Faithful,  not  welcome,  when  my  tale  is  told. 
O  that  my  over-speed  and  bursting  grief 
Had  on  the  journey  choked  my  laboring  breath, 
And  lock'd  my  speech  for  ever  in  my  breast  ! 


334  ME  NOPE. 

Yet  then  another  man  would  bring  this  news, 
Wherewith  from  end  to  end  Arcadia  rings.  — 
O  honor'd  Queen,  thy  son,  my  charge,  is  gone. 

THE   CHORUS. 

Too  suddenly  thou  tellest  such  a  loss. 

Look  up,  O  Queen  !  look  up,  O  mistress  dear  ! 

Look  up,  and  see  thy  friends  who  comfort  thee. 

MEROPE. 

Ah  ...  ah  ...  ah  me  ! 

THE   CHORUS. 

And  I,  too,  say,  ah  me  ! 

ARCAS. 

Forgive,  forgive  the  bringer  of  such  news  ! 

MEROPE. 

Better  from  thine  than  from  an  enemy's  tongue. 

THE   CHORUS. 

And  yet  no  enemy  did  this,  O  Queen  : 

But  the  wit-baffling  will  and  hand  of  Heaven. 

ARCAS. 

No  enemy  !  and  what  hast  thou,  then,  heard  ? 
Swift  as  I  came,  hath  falsehood  been  before? 

THE    CHORUS. 

A  youth  arrived  but  now  —  the  son,  he  said, 
Of  an  Arcadian  lord  —  our  prince's  friend  — 
Jaded  with  travel,  clad  in  hunter's  garb. 


ATE  ROPE.  335 

He  brought  report  that  his  own  eyes  had  seen 

The  prince,  in  chase  after  a  swimming  stag, 

Swept  down  a  chasm  rifted  in  the  cliff 

Which  hangs  o'er  the  Stymphalian  Lake,  and  drown'd. 

ARCAS. 

Ah  me  !  with  what  a  foot  doth  treason  post, 
While  loyalty,  with  all  her  speed,  is  slow  ! 
Another  tale,  I  trow,  thy  messenger 
For  the  King's  private  ear  reserves,  like  this 
In  one  thing  only,  that  the  prince  is  dead. 

THE   CHORUS. 

And  how  then  runs  this  true  and  private  tale  ? 

ARCAS. 

As  much  to  the  King's  wish,  more  to  his  shame, 
This  young  Arcadian  noble,  guard  and  mate 
To  ^Epytus,  the  king  seduced  with  gold, 
And  had  him  at  the  prince's  side  in  leash, 
Ready  to  slip  on  his  unconscious  prey. 
He  on  a  hunting  party  two  days  since, 
Among  the  forests  on  Cyllene's  side, 
Perform'd  good  service  for  his  bloody  wage  ; 
Our  prince,  and  the  good  Laias,  whom  his  ward 
Had  in  a  father's  place,  he  basely  murder'd. 
'Tis  so,  'tis  so,  alas,  for  see  the  proof : 
Uncle  and  nephew  disappear  ;  their  death 
Is  charged  against  this  stripling ;  agents,  fee'd 
To  ply  'twixt  the  Messenian  king  and  him, 
Come  forth,  denounce  the  traffic  and  the  traitor. 
Seized,  he  escapes  —  and  next  I  find  him  here. 
Take  this  for  true,  the  other  tale  for  feign'd. 


336  ME  ROPE. 

THE   CHORUS. 

The  youth,  thou  say'st,  we  saw  and  heard  but  now  — 

ARCAS. 

He  comes  to  tell  his  prompter  he  hath  sped. 

THE   CHORUS. 

Still  he  repeats  the  drowning  story  here. 

ARCAS. 

To  thee  —  that  needs  no  (Edipus  to  explain. 

THE   CHORUS. 

Interpret,  then  ;  for  we,  it  seems,  are  dull. 

ARCAS. 

Your  King  desired  the  profit  of  his  death, 

Not  the  black  credit  of  his  murderer. 

That  stern  word  "  murder'"  had  too  dread  a  sound 

For  the  Messenian  hearts,  who  loved  the  prince. 

THE   CHORUS. 

Suspicion  grave  I  see,  but  no  firm  proof. 

MEROPE. 

Peace  !  peace  !  all's  clear. — The  wicked  watch  and  work 

While  the  good  sleep ;  the  workers  have  the  day. 

Yes  !  yes  !  now  I  conceive  the  liberal  grace 

Of  this  far-scheming  tyrant,  and  his  boon 

Of  heirship  to  his  kingdom  for  my  son  : 

He  had  his  murderer  ready,  and  the  sword 

Lifted,  and  that  unwish'd-for  heirship  void  — 


MEROPE.  337 

A  tale,  meanwhile,  forged  for  his  subjects'  ears  — 

And  me,  henceforth  sole  rival  with  himself 

In  their  allegiance,  me,  in  my  son's  death-hour, 

When  all  turn'd  tow'rds  me,  me  he  would  have  shown 

To  my  Messenians,  duped,  disarm'd,  despised, 

The  willing  sharer  of  his  guilty  rule, 

All  claim  to  succor  forfeit,  to  myself 

Hateful,  by  each  Messenian  heart  abhorr'd. 

His  offers  I  repell'd  —  but  what  of  that? 

If  with  no  rage,  no  fire  of  righteous  hate, 

Such  as  ere  now  hath  spurr'd  to  fearful  deeds 

Weak  women  with  a  thousandth  part  my  wrongs, 

But  calm,  but  unresentful,  I  endured 

His  offers,  coldly  heard  them,  cold  repell'd  ? 

How  must  men  think  me  abject,  void  of  heart, 

While  all  this  time  I  bear  to  linger  on 

In  this  blood-deluged  palace,  in  whose  halls 

Either  a  vengeful  Fury  I  should  stalk, 

Or  else  not  live  at  all !  —  but  here  I  haunt, 

A  pale,  unmeaning  ghost,  powerless  to  fright 

Or  harm,  and  nurse  my  longing  for  my  son, 

A  helpless  one,  I  know  it  —  but  the  Gods 

Have  temper'd  me  e'en  thus,  and,  in  some  souls, 

Misery,  which  rouses  others,  breaks  the  spring. 

And  even  now,  my  son,  ah  me  !  my  son, 

Fain  would  I  fade  away,  as  I  have  lived, 

Without  a  cry,  a  struggle,  or  a  blow, 

All  vengeance  unattempted,  and  descend 

To  the  invisible  plains,  to  roam  with  thee, 

Fit  denizen,  the  lampless  under-world 

But  with  what  eyes  should  I  encounter  there 
My  husband,  wandering  with  his  stern  compeers, 
Amphiaraos,  or  Mycenae's  king, 
Who  led  the  Greeks  to  Ilium,  Agamemnon, 


338  ME  ROPE. 

Betray'd  like  him,  but,  not  like  him,  avenged  ? 

Or  with  what  voice  shall  I  the  questions  meet 

Of  my  two  elder  sons,  slain  long  ago, 

Who  sadly  ask  me,  what,  if  not  revenge, 

Kept  me,  their  mother,  from  their  side  so  long? 

Or  how  reply  to  thee,  my  child  last-born, 

Last-murder'd,  who  reproachfully  wilt  say  : 

Mother,  I  well  believed  thou  lived'' 'st  on 

In  the  detested  palace  of  thy  foe, 

With  patience  on  thy  face,  death  i?i  thy  heart, 

Counting,  till  I  grew  up,  the  laggard  years, 

That  our  joint  hands  might  then  together  pay 

To  our  unhappy  house  the  debt  we  owe. 

My  death  makes  my  debt  void,  and  doubles  thine  — 

But  down  thou  flees t  here,  and  leav'st  our  scourge 

Triumphant,  and  condemnesl  all  our  race 

To  lie  in  gloom  for  ever  unappeased. 

What  shall  I  have  to  answer  to  such  words?  — 

No,  something  must  be  dared ;  and,  great  as  erst 

Our  dastard  patience,  be  our  daring  now  ! 

Come,  ye  swift  Furies,  who  to  him  ye  haunt 

Permit  no  peace  till  your  behests  are  done ; 

Come  Hermes,  who  dost  friend  the  unjustly  kill'd, 

And  canst  teach  simple  ones  to  plot  and  feign ; 

Come,  lightning  Passion,  that  with  foot  of  fire 

Advancest  to  the  middle  of  a  deed 

Almost  before  'tis  plann'd  ;  come,  glowing  Hate ; 

Come,  baneful  Mischief,  from  thy  murky  den 

Under  the  dripping  black  Tartarean  cliff 

Which  Styx's  awful  waters  trickle  down  — 

Inspire  this  coward  heart,  this  flagging  arm  ! 

How  say  ye,  maidens,  do  ye  know  these  prayers  ? 

Are  these  words  Merope's  —  is  this  voice  mine  ? 

Old  man,  old  man,  thou  hadst  my  boy  in  charge, 


ME  ROPE.  339 

And  he  is  lost,  and  thou  hast  that  to  atone  ! 
Fly,  find  me  on  the  instant  where  confer 
The  murderer  and  his  impious  setter-on  — 
And  ye,  keep  faithful  silence,  friends,  and  mark 
What  one  weak  woman  can  achieve  alone. 

ARCAS. 

0  mistress,  by  the  Gods,  do  nothing  rash  !  i 

MEROPE. 

Unfaithful  servant,  dost  thou,  too,  desert  me  ? 

ARCAS. 

1  go  !  I  go  !  —  The  King  holds  council  —  there 
Will  I  seek  tidings.     Take,  the  while,  this  word  : 
Attempting  deeds  beyond  thy  power  to  do, 
Thou  nothing  profitest  thy  friends,  but  mak'st 
Our  misery  more,  and  thine  own  ruin  sure. 

[ARCAS  goes  out. 
THE   CHORUS. 

I  have  heard,  O  Queen,  how  a  prince,  str.  i. 

Agamemnon's  son,  in  Mycenae, 
Orestes,  died  but  in  name, 
Lived  for  the  death  of  his  foes. 

MEROPE. 

Peace  ! 

THE   CHORUS. 


What  is  it? 


Thou  destroyest  me 


MEROPE. 

Alas, 


340  MEROPE. 

THE    CHORUS. 

How? 

MEROPE. 

Whispering  hope  of  a  life 
Which  no  stranger  unknown, 
But  the  faithful  servant  and  nurse, 
Whose  tears  warrant  his  truth, 
Bears  sad  witness  is  lost. 

THE   CHORUS. 

Wheresoe'er  men  are,  there  is  grief.  ant.  i. 

In  a  thousand  countries,  a  thousand 
Homes,  e'en  now  is  there  wail ; 
Mothers  lamenting  their  sons. 


Yes 


MEROPE. 
THE   CHORUS. 

Thou  knowest  it? 


MEROPE. 

Who  lives,  witnesses. 

THE   CHORUS. 

True. 

MEROPE. 

But  is  it  only  a  fate 

Sure,  all-common,  to  lose 

In  a  land  of  friends,  by  a  friend, 

One  last,  murder-saved  child  ? 


This, 


MEROPE.  34  T 

THE   CHORUS. 

Ah  me  !  &r.  2. 

MEROPE. 

Thou  confessest  the  prize 

In  the  rushing,  thundering,  mad, 

Cloud-enveloped,  obscure, 

Unapplauded,  unsung 

Race  of  calamity,  mine  ? 

THE    CHORUS. 

None  can  truly  claim  that 
Mournful  pre-eminence,  not 
Thou. 

MEROPE. 

Fate  gives  it,  ah  me  ! 

THE   CHORUS. 

Not,  above  all,  in  the  doubts, 
Double  and  clashing,  that  hang 

MEROPE. 

What  then?  ant  2. 

Seems  it  lighter,  my  loss, 

If,  perhaps,  unpierced  by  the  sword, 

My  child  lies  in  his  jagg'd 

Sunless  prison  of  rock, 

On  the  black  wave  borne  to  and  fro? 

THE   CHORUS. 

Worse,  far  worse,  if  his  friend, 
If  the  Arcadian  within, 
If 


342  MEROPE. 

merope  {with  a  start). 
How  say'st  thou?  within?  .  .  . 

THE   CHORUS. 

He  in  the  guest-chamber  now, 
Faithlessly  murder'd  his  friend. 

MEROPE. 

Ye,  too,  ye,  too,  join  to  betray,  then 
Your  Queen  ! 

THE   CHORUS. 

What  is  this  ? 

MEROPE. 

Ye  knew, 
O  false  friends  !  into  what 
Haven  the  murderer  had  dropp'd  ? 
Ye  kept  silence  ? 

THE   CHORUS. 

In  fear, 

0  loved  mistress  !  in  fear, 
Dreading  thine  over-wrought  mood, 
What  I  knew,  I  conceal'd. 

MEROPE. 

Swear  by  the  Gods  henceforth  to  obey  me  ! 

THE   CHORUS. 

Unhappy  one,  what  deed 
Purposes  thy  despair  ? 

1  promise  ;  but  I  fear. 


ME  ROPE.  343 

MEROPE. 

From  the  altar,  the  unavenged  tomb, 

Fetch  me  the  sacrifice-axe  ! 

[The  Chorus  goes  towards  the  tomb  o/"Cresphontes, 
and  their  leader  brings  back  the  axe. 

O  Husband,  O  clothed 
With  the  grave's  everlasting, 
All-covering  darkness  !     O  King, 
Well-mourn'd,  but  ill-avenged  ! 

Approv'st  thou  thy  wife  now  ? 

The  axe  !  —  who  brings  it  ? 

THE    CHORUS. 

Tis  here  ! 
But  thy  gesture,  thy  look, 

Appall  me,  shake  me  with  awe. 

MEROPE. 

Thrust  back  now  the  bolt  of  that  door  ! 

THE   CHORUS. 

Alas  !  alas  !  — 

Behold  the  fastenings  withdrawn 

Of  the  guest-chamber  door  !  — 

Ah  !  I  beseech  thee  —  with  tears 


MEROPE. 

Throw  the  door  open  ! 

THE   CHORUS. 

'Tis  done  !  .  .  . 

[  The  door  of  the  house  is  thrown  open  :  the  interior 
of  the  guest-chamber  is  discovered,  with  /EPYTUS 
asleep  on  a  couch. 


344  ME  ROPE. 

MEROPE. 

He  sleeps  —  sleeps  calm.     O  ye  all-seeing  Gods  ! 

Thus  peacefully  do  ye  let  sinners  sleep, 

While  troubled  innocents  toss,  and  lie  awake  ? 

What  sweeter  sleep  than  this  could  I  desire 

For  thee,  my  child,  if  thou  wert  yet  alive? 

How  often  have  I  dream'd  of  thee  like  this, 

With  thy  soil'd  hunting-coat,  and  sandals  torn, 

Asleep  in  the  Arcadian  glens  at  noon, 

Thy  head  droop'd  softly,  and  the  golden  curls 

Clustering  o'er  thy  white  forehead,  like  a  girl's  ; 

The  short  proud  lip  showing  thy  race,  thy  cheeks 

Brown'd  with  thine  open-air,  free,  hunter's  life. 

Ah  me  ! 

And  where  dost  thou  sleep  now,  my  innocent  boy?  — 

In  some  dark  fir-tree's  shadow,  amid  rocks 

Untrodden,  on  Cyllene's  desolate  side  ; 

Where  travellers  never  pass,  where  only  come 

Wild  beasts,  and  vultures  sailing  overhead. 

There,  there  thou  liest  now,  my  hapless  child  ! 

Stretch'd  among  briers  and  stones,  the  slow,  black  gore 

Oozing  through  thy  soak'd  hunting-shirt,  with  limbs 

Yet  stark  from  the  death-struggle,  tight-clench'd  hands, 

And  eyeballs  staring  for  revenge  in  vain. 

Ah  miserable  ! 

And  thou,  thou  fair-skinn'd  Serpent !  thou  art  laid 

In  a  rich  chamber,  on  a  happy  bed, 

In  a  king's  house,  thy  victim's  heritage  ; 

And  drink'st  untroubled  slumber,  to  sleep  off 

The  toils  of  thy  foul  service,  till  thou  wake 

Refresh'd,  and  claim  thy  master's  thanks  and  gold.  — 

Wake  up  in  hell  from  thine  unhallow'd  sleep, 

Thou  smiling  Fiend,  and  claim  thy  guerdon  there  ! 


MEROPE.  345 

Wake  amid  gloom,  and  howling,  and  the  noise 

Of  sinners  pinion'd  on  the  torturing  wheel, 

And  the  stanch  Furies'  never-silent  scourge. 

And  bid  the  chief  tormentors  there  provide 

For  a  grand  culprit  shortly  coming  down. 

Go  thou  the  first,  and  usher  in  thy  lord  ! 

A  more  just  stroke  than  that  thou  gav'st  my  son 

Take 

[Merope  advances  towards  the  sleeping  ^pytus,  with  the 
axe  uplifted.     At  the  same  moment  ARCAS  re-enters. 

ARCAS  {to  THE  CHORUS). 

Not  with  him  to  council  did  the  King 

Carry  his  messenger,  but  left  him  here. 

[Sees  Merope  and  ^Epytus. 
O  Gods  !  .  .  . 

MEROPE. 

Foolish  old  man,  thou  spoil'st  my  blow  ! 


What  do  I  see  ?  .  . 


Therefore  no  words  ! 


ARCAS. 
MEROPE. 

A  murderer  at  death's  door. 

ARCAS. 

A  murderer?  .  .  . 


MEROPE. 

And  a  captive 
To  the  dear  next-of-kin  of  him  he  murder'd. 
Stand,  and  let  vengeance  pass  ! 


346 


MEROPE. 


ARCAS. 

Hold,  O  Queen,  hold  ! 
Thou  know'st  not  whom  thou  strik'st.  .  .  . 


MEROPE. 
ARCAS. 

Unhappy  one  !  thou  strik'st 

MEROPE. 
ARCAS. 

No,  by  the  Gods,  thou  slay'st  — 

MEROPE. 


I  know  his  crime. 


A  most  just  blow. 


ARCAS. 


MEROPE. 


Stand  off ! 

Thy  son  ! 


Ah! 


[She  lets  the  axe  drop,  and  falls  insensible. 


/epytus  {awaking) . 

Who  are  these  ?    What  shrill,  ear-piercing  scream 
Wakes  me  thus  kindly  from  the  perilous  sleep 
Wherewith  fatigue  and  youth  had  bound  mine  eyes, 
Even  in  the  deadly  palace  of  my  foe  ?  — 
Areas  !     Thou  here  ? 

arcas   {embracing  hint) . 

O  my  dear  master  !  O 
My  child,  my  charge  beloved,  welcome  to  life  ! 
As  dead  we  held  thee,  mourn'd  for  thee  as  dead. 


ME  ROPE.  347 

iEPYTUS. 

In  word  I  died,  that  I  in  deed  might  live. 
But  who  are  these  ? 

ARCAS. 

Messenian  maidens,  friends. 

jEPYTUS. 

And,  Areas  !  —  but  I  tremble  ! 

ARCAS. 

Boldly  ask. 

^PYTUS. 

That  black-robed,  swooning  figure?  .  .  . 

ARCAS. 

Merope. 

>EPYTUS. 

O  mother  !  mother  ! 

MEROPE. 

Who  upbraids  me  ?    Ah  !  .  .  . 
\seeing  the  axe. 
^PYTUS. 

Upbraids  thee  ?  no  one. 

MEROPE. 

Thou  dost  well :  but  take  .  .  . 

^EPYTUS. 

What  wav'st  thou  off? 


348  MEROPE. 


MEROPE. 

That  murderous  axe  away  ! 


,<epytus. 
Thy  son  is  here. 


MEROPE. 

One  said  so,  sure,  but  now. 

vEPYTUS. 

Here,  here  thou  hast  him  ! 

MEROPE. 

Slaughter'd  by  this  hand  ! 

i^PYTUS. 

No,  by  the  Gods,  alive  and  like  to  live  ! 

MEROPE. 

What,  thou  ?  —  I  dream 


yEPYTUS. 

May'st  thou  dream  ever  so  ! 

merope  {advancing  towards  hint). 
My  child  ?  unhurt  ?  .  .  . 

/EPYTUS. 

Only  by  over  joy. 

MEROPE. 

Art  thou,  then,  come?  .  .  . 


MEROPE.  349 

^EPYTUS. 

Never  to  part  again. 

[  They  fall  into  one  another's  arms.     Then  Merope, 
holding  /Epytus  by  the  hand,  turns  to  The  Chorus. 

MEROPE. 

O  kind  Messenian  maidens,  O  my  friends, 
Bear  witness,  see,  mark  well,  on  what  a  head 
My  first  stroke  of  revenge  had  nearly  fallen  ! 

THE   CHORUS. 

We  see,  dear  mistress  :  and  we  say,  the  Gods, 
As  hitherto  they  kept  him,  keep  him  now. 

MEROPE. 

0  my  son  !  str. 

1  have,  I  have  thee  .  .  .  the  years 
Fly  back,  my  child  !  and  thou  seem'st 
Ne'er  to  have  gone  from  these  eyes, 
Never  been  torn  from  this  breast. 

^EPYTUS. 

Mother,  my  heart  runs  over ;  but  the  time 
Presses  me,  chides  me,  will  not  let  me  weep. 

MEROPE. 

Fearest  thou  now? 

/EPYTUS. 

I  fear  not,  but  I  think  on  my  design. 


350  MEROPE. 

MEROPE. 

At  the  undried  fount  of  this  breast, 
A  babe,  thou  smilest  again. 
Thy  brothers  play  at  my  feet, 
Early-slain  innocents  !  near, 
Thy  kind-speaking  father  stands. 

.EPYTUS. 

Remember,  to  avenge  his  death  I  come  ! 

MEROPE. 

Ah  .  .  .  revenge  !  ant. 

That  word  !  it  kills  me  !     I  see 
Once  more  roll  back  on  my  house, 
Never  to  ebb,  the  accurst 
All-flooding  ocean  of  blood. 

jEPYTUS. 

Mother,  sometimes  the  justice  of  the  Gods 
Appoints  the  way  to  peace  through  shedding  blood. 

MEROPE. 

Sorrowful  peace  ! 

/EPYTUS. 

And  yet  the  only  peace  to  us  allow'd. 

MEROPE. 

From  the  first-wrought  vengeance  is  born 

A  long  succession  of  crimes. 

Fresh  blood  flows,  calling  for  blood. 

Fathers,  sons,  grandsons,  are  all 

One  death-dealing  vengeful  train. 


ME  ROPE.  35E 

jEPYTUS. 

Mother,  thy  fears  are  idle  ;  for  I  come 

To  close  an  old  wound,  not  to  open  new. 

In  all  else  willing  to  be  taught,  in  this 

Instruct  me  not ;  I  have  my  lesson  clear. 

Areas,  seek  out  my  uncle^Laias,  now 

Conferring  in  the  city  with  our  friends  ; 

Here  bring  him,  ere  the  King  come  back  from  council. 

That,  how  to  accomplish  what  the  Gods  enjoin, 

And  the  slow-ripening  time  at  last  prepares, 

We  two  with  thee,  my  mother,  may  consult ; 

For  whose  help  dare  I  count  on,  if  not  thine  ? 

MEROPE. 

Approves  my  brother  Laias  this  intent? 

jEPYTUS. 

Yes,  and  alone  is  with  me  here  to  share. 

MEROPE. 

And  what  of  thine  Arcadian  mate,  who  bears 
Suspicion  from  thy  grandsire  of  thy  death, 
For  whom,  as  I  suppose,  thou  passest  here? 

^PYTUS. 

Sworn  to  our  plot  he  is  ;  if  false  surmise 
Fix  him  the  author  of  my  death,  I  know  not. 

MEROPE. 

Proof,  not  surmise,  shows  him  in  commerce  close 


352  ME  ROPE. 

^PYTUS. 

With  this  Messenian  tyrant  —  that  I  know. 

MEROPE. 

And  entertain'st  thou,  child,  such  dangerous  friends? 

^EPYTUS. 

This  commerce  for  my  best  behoof  he  plies. 

MEROPE. 

That  thou  mayst  read  thine  enemy's  counsel  plain? 

jEPYTUS. 

Too  dear  his  secret  wiles  have  cost  our  house. 

MEROPE. 

And  of  his  unsure  agent  what  demands  he  ? 

;epytus. 
News  of  my  business,  pastime,  temper,  friends. 

MEROPE. 

His  messages,  then,  point  not  to  thy  murder? 

^EPYTUS. 

Not  yet,  though  such,  no  doubt,  his  final  aim. 

MEROPE. 

And  what  Arcadian  helpers  bring'st  thou  here  ? 


ME  ROPE.  353 

iEPYTUS. 

Laias  alone ;  no  errand  mine  for  crowds. 

MEROPE. 

On  what  relying,  to  crush  such  a  foe  ? 

^PYTUS. 

One  sudden  stroke,  and  the  Messenians'  love. 

MEROPE. 

O  thou  long-lost,  long  seen  in  dreams  alone, 

But  now  seen  face  to  face,  my  only  child  ! 

Why  wilt  thou  fly  to  lose  as  soon  as  found 

My  new- won  treasure,  thy  beloved  life  ? 

Or  how  expectest  not  to  lose,  who  com'st 

With  such  slight  means  to  cope  with  such  a  foe  ? 

Thine  enemy  thou  know'st  not,  nor  his  strength. 

The  stroke  thou  purposest  is  desperate,  rash  — 

Yet  grant  that  it  succeeds  —  thou  hast  behind 

The  stricken  King  a  second  enemy 

Scarce  dangerous  less  than  him,  the  Dorian  lords. 

These  are  not  now  the  savage  band  who  erst 

Follow'd  thy  father  from  their  northern  hills, 

Mere  ruthless  and  uncounsell'd  wolves  of  war, 

Good  to  obey,  without  a  leader  nought. 

Their  chief  hath  train'd  them,  made  them  like  himself, 

Sagacious,  men  of  iron,  watchful,  firm, 

Against  surprise  and  sudden  panic  proof. 

Their  master  fall'n,  these  will  not  flinch,  but  band 

To  keep  their  master's  power ;  thou  wilt  find 

Behind  his  corpse  their  hedge  of  serried  spears. 

But,  to  match  these,  thou  hast  the  people's  love? 


354  ME  ROPE. 

On  what  a  reed,  my  child,  thou  leanest  there  ! 

Knowest  thou  not  how  timorous,  how  unsure, 

How  useless  an  ally  a  people  is 

Against  the  one  and  certain  arm  of  power  ? 

Thy  father  perish'd  in  this  people's  cause, 

Perish'd  before  their  eyes,  yet  no  man  stirr'd  ! 

For  years,  his  widow,  in  their  sight  I  stand, 

A  never-changing  index  to  revenge  — 

What  help,  what  vengeance,  at  their  hands  have  I  ? 

At  least,  if  thou  wilt  trust  them,  try  them  first. 

Against  the  King  himself  array  the  host 

Thou  countest  on  to  back  thee  'gainst  his  lords  j 

First  rally  the  Messenians  to  thy  cause, 

Give  them  cohesion,  purpose,  and  resolve, 

Marshal  them  to  an  army  —  then  advance, 

Then  try  the  issue  ;  and  not,  rushing  on 

Single  and  friendless,  give  to  certain  death 

That  dear-beloved,  that  young,  that  gracious  head. 

Be  guided,  O  my  son  !  spurn  counsel  not  ! 

For  know  thou  this,  a  violent  heart  hath  been 

Fatal  to  all  the  race  of  Heracles. 

THE   CHORUS. 

With  sage  experience  she  speaks ;  and  thou, 
O  ^Epytus,  weigh  well  her  counsel  given. 

^EPYTUS. 

Ill  counsel,  in  my  judgment,  gives  she  here, 
Maidens,  and  reads  experience  much  amiss ; 
Discrediting  the  succor  which  our  cause 
Might  from  the  people  draw,  if  rightly  used  ; 
Advising  us  a  course  which  would,  indeed, 
If  follow'd,  make  their  succor  slack  and  null. 


ME  ROPE.  355 

A  people  is  no  army,  train'd  to  fight, 

A  passive  engine,  at  their  general's  will ; 

And,  if  so  used,  proves,  as  thou  say'st,  unsure. 

A  people,  like  a  common  man,  is  dull, 

Is  lifeless,  while  its  heart  remains  untouch'd ; 

A  fool  can  drive  it,  and  a  fly  may  scare. 

When  it  admires  and  loves,  its  heart  awakes  : 

Then  irresistibly  it  lives,  it  works ; 

A  people,  then,  is  an  ally  indeed  — 

It  is  ten  thousand  fiery  wills  in  one. 

Now  I,  if  I  invite  them  to  run  risk 

Of  life  for  my  advantage,  and  myself, 

Who  chiefly  profit,  run  no  more  than  they  — 

How  shall  I  rouse  their  love,  their  ardor  so  ? 

But,  if  some  signal,  unassisted  stroke, 

Dealt  at  my  own  sole  risk,  before  their  eyes, 

Announces  me  their  rightful  prince  return'd  — 

The  undegenerate  blood  of  Heracles  — 

The  daring  claimant  of  a  perilous  throne  — 

How  might  not  such  a  sight  as  this  revive 

Their  loyal  passion  tow'rd  my  father's  house, 

Kindle  their  hearts,  make  them  no  more  a  mob, 

A  craven  mob,  but  a  devouring  fire? 

Then  might  I  use  them,  then,  for  one  who  thus 

Spares  not  himself,  themselves  they  will  not  spare. 

Haply,  had  but  one  daring  soul  stood  forth 

To  rally  them  and  lead  them  to  revenge, 

When  my  great  father  fell,  they  had  replied  ! 

Alas  !  our  foe  alone  stood  forward  then. 

And  thou,  my  mother,  hadst  thou  made  a  sign  — 

Hadst  thou,  from  thy  forlorn  and  captive  state 

Of  widowhood  in  these  polluted  halls, 

Thy  prison-house,  raised  one  imploring  cry  — 

Who  knows  but  that  avengers  thou  hadst  found  ? 


356  ME  ROPE. 

But  mute  thou  sat'st,  and  each  Messenian  heart 

In  thy  despondency  desponded  too. 

Enough  of  this  ! — Though  not  a  finger  stir 

To  succor  me  in  my  extremest  need  ; 

Though  all  free  spirits  in  this  land  were  dead, 

And  only  slaves  and  tyrants  left  alive  ; 

Yet  for  me,  mother,  I  had  liefer  die 

On  native  ground,  than  drag  the  tedious  hours 

Of  a  protected  exile  any  more. 

Hate,  duty,  interest,  passion  call  one  way ; 

Here  stand  I  now,  and  the  attempt  shall  be. 

THE   CHORUS. 

Prudence  is  on  the  other  side  ;  but  deeds 
Condemn'd  by  prudence  have  sometimes  gone  well. 

MEROPE. 

Not  till  the  ways  of  prudence  all  are  tried, 
And  tried  in  vain,  the  turn  of  rashness  comes. 
Thou  leapest  to  thy  deed,  and  hast  not  ask'd 
Thy  kinsfolk  and  thy  father's  friends  for  aid. 

jEPYTUS. 

And  to  what  friends  should  I  for  aid  apply  ? 


MEROPE. 

The  royal  race  of  Temenus,  in  Argos 


JEPYTUS. 

That  house,  like  ours,  intestine  murder  maims. 

MEROPE. 

Thy  Spartan  cousins,  Procles  and  his  brother  - 


ME  ROPE.  357 

/EPYTUS. 
Love  a  won  cause,  but  not  a  cause  to  win. 

MEROPE. 

My  father,  then,  and  his  Arcadian  chiefs 

jEPYTUS. 

Mean  still  to  keep  aloof  from  Dorian  broil. 

MEROPE. 

Wait,  then,  until  sufficient  help  appears. 

^PYTUS. 

Orestes  in  Mycenae  had  no  more. 

MEROPE. 

He  to  fulfil  an  order  raised  his  hand. 

.EPYTUS. 

What  order  more  precise  had  he  than  I  ? 

MEROPE. 

Apollo  peal'd  it  from  his  Delphian  cave. 

/EPYTUS. 

A  mother's  murder  needed  hest  divine. 

MEROPE. 

He  had  a  hest,  at  least,  and  thou  hast  none. 

^EPYTUS. 

The  Gods  command  not  where  the  heart  speaks  clear. 


358  MEROPE. 

MEROPE. 
Thou  wilt  destroy,  I  see,  thyself  and  us. 

^PYTUS. 

O  suffering  !  O  calamity  !  how  ten, 

How  twentyfold  worse  are  ye,  when  your  blows 

Not  only  wound  the  sense,  but  kill  the  soul, 

The  noble  thought,  which  is  alone  the  man  ! 

That  I,  to-day  returning,  find  myself 

Orphan'd  of  both  my  parents  —  by  his  foes 

My  father,  by  your  strokes  my  mother  slain  ! 

For  this  is  not  my  mother,  who  dissuades, 

At  the  dread  altar  of  her  husband's  tomb, 

His  son  from  vengeance  on  his  murderer ; 

And  not  alone  dissuades  him,  but  compares 

His  just  revenge  to  an  unnatural  deed, 

A  deed  so  awful,  that  the  general  tongue 

Fluent  of  horrors,  falters  to  relate  it  — 

Of  darkness  so  tremendous,  that  its  author, 

Though  to  his  act  empower'd,  nay,  impell'd, 

By  the  oracular  sentence  of  the  Gods, 

Fled,  for  years  after,  o'er  the  face  of  earth, 

A  frenzied  wanderer,  a  God-driven  man, 

And  hardly  yet,  some  say,  hath  found  a  grave  — 

With  such  a  deed  as  this  thou  match  est  mine, 

Which  Nature  sanctions,  which  the  innocent  blood 

Clamors  to  find  fulfill'd,  which  good  men  praise, 

And  only  bad  men  joy  to  see  undone  ! 

O  honor' d  father  !  hide  thee  in  thy  grave 

Deep  as  thou  canst,  for  hence  no  succor  comes ; 

Since  from  thy  faithful  subjects  what  revenge 

Canst  thou  expect,  when  thus  thy  widow  fails  ? 

Alas  !  an  adamantine  strength  indeed, 


MEROPE.  359 

Past  expectation,  hath  thy  murderer  built ; 
For  this  is  the  true  strength  of  guilty  kings, 
When  they  corrupt  the  souls  of  those  they  rule. 

THE   CHORUS. 

Zeal  makes  him  most  unjust ;  but,  in  good  time, 
Here,  as  I  guess,  the  noble  Laias  comes. 

LAIAS. 

Break  off,  break  off  your  talking,  and  depart 
Each  to  his  post,  where  the  occasion  calls ; 
Lest  from  the  council-chamber  presently 
The  King  return,  and  find  you  prating  here. 
A  time  will  come  for  greetings  ;  but  to-day 
The  hour  for  words  is  gone,  is  come  for  deeds. 

/EPYTUS. 

0  princely  Laias !  to  what  purpose  calls 
The  occasion,  if  our  chief  confederate  fails  ? 
My  mother  stands  aloof,  and  blames  our  deed. 

LAIAS. 

My  royal  sister?  .  .  .  but,  without  some  cause, 

1  know,  she  honors  not  the  dead  so  ill. 

MEROPE. 

Brother,  it  seems  thy  sister  must  present, 

At  this  first  meeting  after  absence  long, 

Not  welcome,  exculpation  to  her  kin ; 

Yet  exculpation  needs  it,  if  I  seek, 

A  woman  and  a  mother,  to  avert 

Risk  from  my  new-restored,  my  only  son?  — 


360  ME  ROPE. 

Sometimes,  when  he  was  gone,  I  wish'd  him  back, 

Risk  what  he  might ;  now  that  I  have  him  here, 

Now  that  I  feed  mine  eyes  on  that  young  face, 

Hear  that  fresh  voice,  and  clasp  that  gold-lock'd  head, 

I  shudder,  Laias,  to  commit  my  child 

To  murder's  dread  arena,  where  I  saw 

His  father  and  his  ill-starr'd  brethren  fall ! 

I  loathe  for  him  the  slippery  way  of  blood ; 

I  ask  if  bloodless  means  may  gain  his  end. 

In  me  the  fever  of  revengeful  hate, 

Passion's  first  furious  longing  to  imbrue 

Our  own  right  hand  in  the  detested  blood 

Of  enemies,  and  count  their  dying  groans  — 

If  in  this  feeble  bosom  such  a  fire 

Did  ever  burn  —  is  long  by  time  allay'd, 

And  I  would  now  have  Justice  strike,  not  me. 

Besides  —  for  from  my  brother  and  my  son 

I  hide  not  even  this  —  the  reverence  deep, 

Remorseful,  tovv'rd  my  hostile  solitude, 

By  Polyphontes  never  fail'd-in  once 

Through  twenty  years ;  his  mournful  anxious  zeal 

To  efface  in  me  the  memory  of  his  crime  — 

Though  it  efface  not  that,  yet  makes  me  wish 

His  death  a  public,  not  a  personal  act, 

Treacherously  plotted  'twixt  my  son  and  me  ; 

To  whom  this  day  he  came  to  proffer  peace, 

Treaty,  and  to  this  kingdom  for  my  son 

Heirship,  with  fair  intent,  as  I  believe.  — 

For  that  he  plots  thy  death,  account  it  false  ; 

{To  /EPYTUS.) 

Number  it  with  the  thousand  rumors  vain, 
Figments  of  plots,  wherewith  intriguers  fill 
The  enforced  leisure  of  an  exile's  ear. 


MEROPE.  361 

Immersed  in  serious  state-craft  is  the  King, 
Bent  above  all  to  pacify,  to  rule, 
Rigidly,  yet  in  settled  calm,  this  realm  ; 
Not  prone,  all  say,  averse  to  bloodshed  now. — 
So  much  is  due  to  truth,  even  tow'rds  our  foe. 

{To    LAIAS.) 

Do  I,  then,  give  to  usurpation  grace, 

And  from  his  natural  rights  my  son  debar? 

Not  so  !  let  him  —  and  none  shall  be  more  prompt 

Than  I  to  help  —  raise  his  Messenian  friends  ; 

Let  him  fetch  succors  from  Arcadia,  gain 

His  Argive  or  his  Spartan  cousins'  aid  ; 

Let  him  do  this,  do  aught  but  recommence 

Murder's  uncertain,  secret,  perilous  game  — 

And  I,  when  to  his  righteous  standard  down 

Flies  Victory  wing'd,  and  Justice  raises  then 

Her  sword,  will  be  the  first  to  bid  it  fall. 

If,  haply,  at  this  moment,  such  attempt 

Promise  not  fair,  let  him  a  little  while 

Have  faith,  and  trust  the  future  and  the  Gods. 

He  may  ;  for  never  did  the  Gods  allow 

Fast  permanence  to  an  ill-gotten  throne.  — 

These  are  but  woman's  words  —  yet,  Laias,  thou 

Despise  them  not !  for,  brother,  thou  and  I 

Were  not  among  the  feuds  of  warrior-chiefs, 

Each  sovereign  for  his  dear-bought  hour,  born  ; 

But  in  the  pastoral  Arcadia  rear'd, 

With  Cypselus  our  father,  where  we  saw 

The  simple  patriarchal  state  of  kings, 

Where  sire  to  son  transmits  the  unquestion'd  crown, 

Unhack'd,  unsmirch'd,  unbloodied,  and  have  learnt 

That  spotless  hands  unshaken  sceptres  hold. 

Having  learnt  this,  then,  use  thy  knowledge  now. 


362  MEROPE. 


THE   CHORUS. 


Which  way  to  lean  I  know  not :  bloody  strokes 
Are  never  free  from  doubt,  though  sometimes  due. 


LAIAS. 


O  Merope,  the  common  heart  of  man 

Agrees  to  deem  some  deeds  so  dark  in  guilt, 

That  neither  gratitude,  nor  tie  of  race, 

Womanly  pity,  nor  maternal  fear, 

Nor  any  pleader  else,  shall  be  indulged 

To  breathe  a  syllable  to  bar  revenge. 

All  this,  no  doubt,  thou  to  thyself  hast  urged  — 

Time  presses,  so  that  theme  forbear  I  now ; 

Direct  to  thy  dissuasions  I  reply. 

Blood-founded  thrones,  thou  say'st,  are  insecure  ; 

Our  father's  kingdom,  because  pure,  is  safe. 

True  ;  but  what  cause  to  our  Arcadia  gives 

Its  privileged  immunity  from  blood, 

But  that,  since  first  the  black  and  fruitful  Earth 

In  the  primeval  mountain-forests  bore 

Pelasgus,  our  forefather  and  mankind's, 

Legitimately  sire  to  son,  with  us, 

Bequeaths  the  allegiance  of  our  shepherd-tribes, 

More  loyal,  as  our  line  continues  more?  — 

How  can  your  Heracleidan  chiefs  inspire 

This  awe  which  guards  our  earth-sprung,  lineal  kings  ? 

What  permanence,  what  stability  like  ours, 

Whether  blood  flows  or  no,  can  yet  invest 

The  broken  order  of  your  Dorian  thrones, 

Fix'd  yesterday,  and  ten  times  changed  since  then?  — 

Two  brothers,  and  their  orphan  nephews,  strove 

For  the  three  conquer'd  kingdoms  of  this  isle  ; 

The  eldest,  mightiest  brother,  Temenus,  took 


MEROPE.  363 

Argos  ;  a  juggle  to  Cresphontes  gave 
Messenia;  to  those  helpless  Boys,  the  lot 
Worst  of  the  three,  the  stony  Sparta,  fell. 
August,  indeed,  was  the  foundation  here  ! 
What  follow'd? — His  most  trusted  kinsman  slew 
Cresphontes  in  Messenia  ;  Temenus 
Perish' d  in  Argos  by  his  jealous  sons  ; 
The  Spartan  Brothers  with  their  guardian  strive. 
Can  houses  thus  ill-seated,  thus  embroil'd, 
Thus  little  founded  in  their  subjects'  love, 
Practise  the  indulgent,  bloodless  policy 
Of  dynasties  long-fix'd,  and  honor'd  long? 
No  !     Vigor  and  severity  must  chain 
Popular  reverence  to  these  recent  lines. 
Be  their  first-founded  order  strict  maintain'd  — 
Their  murder'd  rulers  terribly  avenged  — 
Ruthlessly  their  rebellious  subjects  crush'd  ! 
Since  policy  bids  thus,  what  fouler  death 
Than  thine  illustrious  husband's  to  avenge 
Shall  we  select  ?  than  Polyphontes,  what 
More  daring  and  more  grand  offender  find  ? 
Justice,  my  sister,  long  demands  this  blow, 
And  Wisdom,  now  thou  seest,  demands  it  too. 
To  strike  it,  then,  dissuade  thy  son  no  more ; 
For  to  live  disobedient  to  these  two, 
Justice  and  Wisdom,  is  no  life  at  all. 

THE   CHORUS. 

The  Gods,  O  mistress  dear  !  the  hard-soul'd  man, 
Who  spared  not  others,  bid  not  us  to  spare. 

MEROPE. 

Alas  !  against  my  brother,  son,  and  friends, 
One,  and  a  woman,  how  can  I  prevail?  — 


364  MEROPE. 

O  brother,  thou  hast  conquer'd  ;  yet,  I  fear  ! 
Son  !  with  a  doubting  heart  thy  mother  yields  ; 
May  it  turn  happier  than  my  doubts  portend  ! 

LAIAS. 

Meantime  on  thee  the  task  of  silence  only 

Shall  be  imposed  ;  to  us  shall  be  the  deed. 

Now,  not  another  word,  but  to  our  act ! 

Nephew  !  thy  friends  are  sounded,  and  prove  true. 

Thy  father's  murderer,  in  the  public  place, 

Performs,  this  noon,  a  solemn  sacrifice  ; 

Be  with  him  —  choose  the  moment  —  strike  thy  blow  ! 

If  prudence  counsels  thee  to  go  unarm'd, 

The  sacrificer's  axe  will  serve  thy  turn. 

To  me  and  the  Messenians  leave  the  rest, 

With  the  Gods'  aid  —  and,  if  they  give  but  aid 

As  our  just  cause  deserves,  I  do  not  fear. 

[^Epytus,  Laias,  and  Arcas  go  out. 

THE   CHORUS. 

O  Son  and  Mother,  sir.  1. 

Whom  the  Gods  o'ershadow 

In  dangerous  trial, 

With  certainty  of  favor  ! 

As  erst  they  shadovv'd 

Your  race's  founders 

From  irretrievable  woe  ; 

When  the  seed  of  Lycaon 

Lay  forlorn,  lay  outcast, 

Callisto  and  her  Boy. 

What  deep-grass'd  meadow  ant.  1. 

At  the  meeting  valleys  — 
Where  clear-flowing  Ladon, 


MEROPE.  365 

Most  beautiful  of  waters, 
Receives  the  river 
Whose  trout  are  vocal, 
The  Aroanian  stream  — 
Without  home,  without  mother, 
Hid  the  babe,  hid  Areas, 
The  nursling  of  the  dells  ? 

But  the  sweet-smelling  myrtle,  sir.  2. 

And  the  pink-flower'd  oleander, 

And  the  green  agnus-castus, 

To  the  west-wind's  murmur, 

Rustled  round  his  cradle  ; 

And  Maia  rear'd  him. 

Then,  a  boy,  he  startled, 

In  the  snow-fill'd  hollows 

Of  high  Cyllene, 

The  white  mountain-birds ; 

Or  surprised,  in  the  glens, 

The  basking  tortoises, 

Whose  striped  shell  founded 

In  the  hand  of  Hermes 

The  glory  of  the  lyre. 

But  his  mother,  Callisto,  ant.  2. 

In  her  hiding-place  of  the  thickets 

Of  the  lentisk  and  ilex 

In  her  rough  form,  fearing 

The  hunter  on  the  outlook, 

Poor  changeling  !  trembled. 

Or  the  children,  plucking 

In  the  thorn-choked  gullies 

Wild  gooseberries,  scared  her, 

The  shy  mountain-bear  ! 


366  ME  ROPE. 


Or  the  shepherds,  on  slopes 
With  pale-spiked  lavender 
And  crisp  thyme  tufted, 
Came  upon  her,  stealing 
At  day-break  through  the  dew. 

Once,  'mid  those  gorges,  sir.  3. 

Spray-drizzled,  lonely, 

Unclimb'd  of  man  — 

O'er  whose  cliffs  the  townsmen 

Of  crag-perch'd  Nonacris 

Behold  in  summer     . 

The  slender  torrent 

Of  Styx  come  dancing, 

A  wind-blown  thread  — 

By  the  precipices  of  Khelmos, 

The  fleet,  desperate  hunter, 

The  youthful  Areas,  born  of  Zeus, 

His  fleeing  mother, 

Transform'd  Callisto, 

Unwitting  follow'd  — 

And  raised  his  spear. 

Turning,  with  piteous,  ant.  3. 

Distressful  longing, 

Sad,  eager  eyes, 

Mutely  she  regarded 

Her  well-known  enemy. 

Low  moans  half  uttei'd 

What  speech  refused  her  ; 

Tears  coursed,  tears  human, 

Down  those  disfigured, 

Once  human  cheeks. 

With  unutterable  foreboding 


MEROPE.  367 


Her  son,  heart-stricken,  eyed  her. 

The  Gods  had  pity,  made  them  Stars. 

Stars  now  they  sparkle 

In  the  northern  Heaven  — 

The  guard  Arcturus, 

The  cuard-watch'd  Bear. 


Gl 


So,  o'er  thee  and  thy  child,  epode. 

Some  God,  Merope,  now, 

In  dangerous  hour,  stretches  his  hand. 

So,  like  a  star,  dawns  thy  son, 

Radiant  with  fortune  and  joy. 

[POLYPHONTES  C01MS  in. 
POLYPHONTES. 

O  Merope,  the  trouble  on  thy  face 

Tells  me  enough  thou  know'st  the  news  which  all 

Messenia  speaks  !  the  prince,  thy  son,  is  dead. 

Not  from  my  lips  should  consolation  fall ; 

To  offer  that,  I  come  not ;  but  to  urge, 

Even  after  news  of  this  sad  death,  our  league. 

Yes,  once  again  I  come ;  I  will  not  take 

This  morning's  angry  answer  for  thy  last. 

To  the  Messenian  kingdom  thou  and  I 

Are  the  sole  claimants  left ;  what  cause  of  strife 

Lay  in  thy  son  is  buried  in  his  grave. 

Most  honorably  I  meant,  I  call  the  Gods 

To  witness,  offering  him  return  and  power  ; 

Yet,  had  he  lived,  suspicion,  jealousy, 

Inevitably  had  surged  up,  perhaps, 

'Twixt  thee  and  me  —  suspicion,  that  I  nursed 

Some  ill  design  against  him  ;  jealousy, 

That  he  enjoy'd  but  part,  being  heir  to  all. 

And  he  himself,  with  the  impetuous  heart 


368  MEROPE. 

Of  youth,  'tis  like,  had  never  quite  forgone 

The  thought  of  vengeance  on  me,  never  quite 

Unclosed  his  itching  fingers  from  his  sword. 

But  thou,  O  Merope,  though  deeply  wrong'd, 

Though  injured  past  forgiveness,  as  men  deem, 

Yet  hast  been  long  at  school  with  thoughtful  time, 

And  from  that  teacher  mayst  have  learn'd,  like  me, 

That  all  may  be  endured,  and  all  forgiv'n  — 

Have  learn'd,  that  we  must  sacrifice  the  bent 

Of  personal  feeling  to  the  public  weal  — 

Have  learn'd,  that  there  are  guilty  deeds,  which  leave 

The  hand  that  does  them  guiltless  ;  in  a  word. 

That  kings  live  for  their  peoples,  not  themselves. 

This  having  known,  let  us  a  union  found 

(For  the  last  time  I  ask,  ask  earnestly) 

Based  on  pure  public  welfare ;  let  us  be 

Not  Merope  and  Polyphontes,  foes 

Blood-sever'd,  but  Messenia's  King  and  Queen  ! 

Let  us  forget  ourselves  for  those  we  rule  ! 

Speak  !     I  go  hence  to  offer  sacrifice 

To  the  Preserver  Zeus  ;  let  me  return 

Thanks  to  him  for  our  amity  as  well. 

MEROPE. 

Oh  hadst  thou,  Polyphontes,  still  but  kept 
The  silence  thou  hast  kept  for  twenty  years  ! 

POLYPHONTES. 

Henceforth,  if  what  I  urge  displease,  I  may. 
But  fair  proposal  merits  fair  reply. 

MEROPE. 

And  thou  shalt  have  it  !     Yes,  because  thou  hast 
For  twenty  years  forborne  to  interrupt 


ME  ROPE.  369 

The  solitude  of  her  whom  thou  hast  wrong'd  — 

That  scanty  grace  shall  earn  thee  this  reply.  — 

First,  for  our  union.     Trust  me,  'twixt  us  two 

The  brazen-footed  Fury  ever  stalks, 

Waving  her  hundred  hands,  a  torch  in  each, 

Aglow  with  angry  fire,  to  keep  us  twain. 

Now,  for  thyself.     Thou  com'st  with  well-cloak'd  joy, 

To  announce  the  ruin  of  my  husband's  house, 

To  sound  thy  triumph  in  his  widow's  ears, 

To  bid  her  share  thine  unendanger'd  throne. 

To  this  thou  wouldst  have  answer.    Take  it :  Fly  !  .  .  . 

Cut  short  thy  triumph,  seeming  at  its  height ; 

Fling  off  thy  crown,  supposed  at  last  secure  ; 

Forsake  this  ample,  proud  Messenian  realm  ; 

To  some  small,  humble,  and  unnoted  strand, 

Some  rock  more  lonely  than  that  Lemnian  isle 

Where  Philoctetes  pined,  take  ship  and  flee  ! 

Some  solitude  more  inaccessible 

Than  the  ice-bastion'd  Caucasian  Mount 

Chosen  a  prison  for  Prometheus,  climb  ! 

There  in  unvoiced  oblivion  sink  thy  name, 

And  bid  the  sun,  thine  only  visitant, 

Divulge  not  to  the  far-off  world  of  men 

What  once-famed  wretch  he  there  did  espy  hid. 

There  nurse  a  late  remorse,  and  thank  the  Gods, 

And  thank  thy  bitterest  foe,  that,  having  lost 

All  things  but  life,  thou  lose  not  life  as  well. 

POLYPHONTES. 

What  mad  bewilderment  of  grief  is  this? 

MEROPE. 

Thou  art  bewilder'd ;  the  sane  head  is  mine. 


370  ME  ROPE. 

POLYPHONTES. 

I  pity  thee,  and  wish  thee  calmer  mind. 

MEROPE. 

Pity  thyself;  none  needs  compassion  more. 

POLYPHONTES. 

Yet,  oh  !  couldst  thou  but  act  as  reason  bids  ! 

MEROPE. 

And  in  my  turn  I  wish  the  same  for  thee. 

POLYPHONTES. 

All  I  could  do  to  soothe  thee  has  been  tried. 

MEROPE. 

For  that,  in  this  my  warning,  thou  art  paid. 

POLYPHONTES. 

Know'st  thou  then  aught,  that  thus  thou  sound'st  the 
alarm  ? 

MEROPE. 

Thy  crime  !  that  were  enough  to  make  one  fear. 

POLYPHONTES. 

My  deed  is  of  old  date,  and  long  atoned. 

MEROPE. 

Atoned  this  very  day,  perhaps,  it  is. 

POLYPHONTES. 

My  final  victory  proves  the  6ods  appeased. 


ME  ROPE.  17 1 

MEROPE. 

0  victor,  victor,  trip  not  at  the  goal ! 

POLYPHONTES. 

Hatred  and  passionate  envy  blind  thine  eyes. 

MEROPE. 

0  Heaven-abandon'd  wretch,  that  envies  thee  ! 

POLYPHONTES. 

Thou  hold'st  so  cheap,  then,  the  Messenian  crown? 

MEROPE. 

1  think  on  what  the  future  hath  in  store. 

POLYPHONTES. 

To-day  I  reign ;  the  rest  I  leave  to  Fate. 

MEROPE. 

For  Fate  thou  wait'st  not  long ;  since,  in  this  hour 

POLYPHONTES. 

What  ?  for  so  far  Fate  hath  not  proved  ray  foe 

MEROPE. 

Fate  seals  my  lips,  and  drags  to  ruin  thee. 


POLYPHONTES. 

Enough  !  enough  !     I  will  no  longer  hear 
The  ill-boding  note  which  frantic  hatred  sounds 
To  affright  a  fortune  which  the  Gods  secure. 
Once  more  my  friendship  thou  rejectest;  well  ! 


372  MEROPE. 

More  for  this  land's  sake  grieve  I,  than  mine  own. 

I  chafe  not  with  thee,  that  thy  hate  endures, 

Nor  bend  myself  too  low,  to  make  it  yield. 

What  I  have  done  is  done  ;  by  my  own  deed, 

Neither  exulting  nor  ashamed,  I  stand. 

Why  should  this  heart  of  mine  set  mighty  store 

By  the  construction  and  report  of  men  ? 

Not  men's  good  word  hath  made  me  what  I  am. 

Alone  I  master'd  power ;  and  alone, 

Since  so  thou  wilt,  I  dare  maintain  it  still. 

[POLYPHONTES  goes  out. 
THE   CHORUS. 

Did  I  then  waver  str.  i. 

(O  woman's  judgment  !) 

Misled  by  seeming 

Success  of  crime  ? 

And  ask,  if  sometimes 

The  Gods,  perhaps,  allow'd  you, 

O  lawless  daring  of  the  strong, 

O  self-will  recklessly  indulged  ? 

Not  time,  not  lightning,  ant.  i. 

Not  rain,  not  thunder, 

Efface  the  endless 

Decrees  of  Heaven  — 

Make  Justice  alter, 

Revoke,  assuage  her  sentence, 

Which  dooms  dread  ends  to  dreadful  deeds, 

And  violent  deaths  to  violent  men. 

But  the  signal  example  str.  2. 

Of  invariableness  of  justice 
Our  glorious  founder   • 


MEROPE.  373 

Heracles  gave  us, 

Son  loved  of  Zeus  his  father  —  for  he  sinn'd, 

And  the  strand  of  Euboea,  ant.  2. 

And  the  promontory  of  Censeum, 

His  painful,  solemn 

Punishment  witness'd, 

Beheld  his  expiation  —  for  he  died. 

O  villages  of  CEta  str.  3. 

With  hedges  of  the  wild  rose  ! 

O  pastures  of  the  mountain, 

Of  short  grass,  beaded  with  dew, 

Between  the  pine-woods  and  the  cliffs  ! 

O  cliffs,  left  by  the  eagles, 

On  that  morn,  when  the  smoke-cloud 

From  the  oak-built,  fiercely-burning  pyre, 

Up  the  precipices  of  Trachis, 

Drove  them  screaming  from  their  eyries  ! 

A  willing,  a  willing  sacrifice  on  that  day 

Ye  witness'd,  ye  mountain  lawns, 

When  the  shirt-wrapt,  poison-blister'd  Hero 

Ascended,  with  undaunted  heart, 

Living,  his  own  funeral-pile, 

And  stood,  shouting  for  a  fiery  torch  ; 

And  the  kind,  chance-arrived  Wanderer,1 

The  inheritor  of  the  bow, 

Coming  swiftly  through  the  sad  Trachinians, 

Put  the  torch  to  the  pile. 

That  the  flame  tower'd  on  high  to  the  Heaven ; 

Bearing  with  it,  to  Olympus, 


1  Poias,  the  father  of  Philoctetes.  Passing  near,  he  was  attracted  by  the 
concourse  round  the  pyre,  and  at  the  entreaty  of  Hercules  set  fire  to  it, 
receiving  the  bow  and  arrows  of  the  hero  as  his  reward. 


374  ME  ROPE. 

To  the  side  of  Hebe, 
To  immortal  delight, 
The  labor-released  Hero. 

O  heritage  of  Neleus,  ant.  3. 

Ill-kept  by  his  infirm  heirs  ! 

O  kingdom  of  Messene, 

Of  rich  soil,  chosen  by  craft, 

Possess'd  in  hatred,  lost  in  blood  ! 

O  town,  high  Stenyclaros, 

With  new  walls,  which  the  victors 

From  the  four-town'd,  mountain-shadow'd  Doris, 

For  their  Heracles-issued  princes 

Built  in  strength  against  the  vanquish'd  ! 

Another,  another  sacrifice  on  this  day 

Ye  witness,  ye  new-built  towers  ! 

When  the  white-robed,  garland- crowned  Monarch 

Approaches,  with  undoubting  heart, 

Living,  his  own  sacrifice-block, 

And  stands,  shouting  for  a  slaughterous  axe  ; 

And  the  stern,  destiny-brought  Stranger, 

The  inheritor  of  the  realm, 

Coming  swiftly  through  the  jocund  Dorians, 

Drives  the  axe  to  its  goal. 

That  the  blood  rashes  in  streams  to  the  dust ; 

Bearing  with  it,  to  Erinnys, 

To  the  Gods  of  Hades, 

To  the  dead  unavenged, 

The  fiercely-required  Victim. 

Knowing  he  did  it,  unknowing  pays  for  it.        [epode. 
Unknowing,  unknowing, 
Thinking  atoned-for 
Deeds  unatonable, 


ME  ROPE.  375 


Thinking  appeased 
Gods  unappeasable, 
Lo,  the  ill-fated  one, 
Standing  for  harbor 
Right  at  the  harbor-mouth 
Strikes  with  all  sail  set 
Full  on  the  sharp-pointed 
Needle  of  ruin  ! 

MESSENGER. 


[A  Messenger  comes  in. 


O  honor'd  Queen,  O  faithful  followers 
Of  your  dead  master's  line,  I  bring  you  news 
To  make  the  gates  of  this  long-mournful  house 
Leap,  and  fly  open  of  themselves  for  joy  ! 

[noise  and  shouting  heard. 

Hark  how  the  shouting  crowds  tramp  hitherward 
With  glad  acclaim  !  Ere  they  forestall  my  news, 
Accept  it :  —  Polyphontes  is  no  more. 

MEROPE. 

Is  my  son  safe  ?  that  question  bounds  my  care. 

MESSENGER. 

He  is,  and  by  the  people  hail'd  for  king. 

MEROPE. 

The  rest  to  me  is  little  ;  yet,  since  that 

Must  from  some  mouth  be  heard,  relate  it  thou. 

MESSENGER. 

Not  little,  if  thou  saw'st  what  love,  what  zeal, 
At  thy  dead  husband's  name  the  people  show. 


376  MEROPE. 

For  when  this  morning  in  the  public  square 

I  took  my  stand,  and  saw  the  unarm'd  crowds 

Of  citizens  in  holiday  attire, 

Women  and  children  intermix'd  ;  and  then, 

Group'd  around  Zeus's  altar,  all  in  arms, 

Serried  and  grim,  the  ring  of  Dorian  lords  — 

I  trembled  for  our  prince  and  his  attempt. 

Silence  and  expectation  held  us  all ; 

Till  presently  the  King  came  forth,  in  robe 

Of  sacrifice,  his  guards  clearing  the  way 

Before  him  —  at  his  side,  the  prince,  thy  son, 

Unarm'd  and  travel-soil'd,  just  as  he  was. 

With  him  conferring  the  King  slowly  reach'd 

The  altar  in  the  middle  of  the  square, 

Where,  by  the  sacrificing  minister, 

The  flower-dress'd  victim  stood  —  a  milk-white  bull, 

Swaying  from  side  to  side  his  massy  head 

With  short  impatient  lowings.     There  he  stopp'd, 

And  seem'd  to  muse  awhile,  then  raised  his  eyes 

To  heaven,  and  laid  his  hand  upon  the  steer, 

And  cried  :   O  Zeus,  let  zohat  blood-guiltiness 

Yet  stains  our  land  be  by  this  blood  ivas/fd  out, 

And  grant  henceforth  to  the  Messenians  peace  / 

That  moment,  while  with  upturn'd  eyes  he  pray'd, 

The  prince  snatch'd  from  the  sacrificer's  hand 

The  axe,  and  on  the  forehead  of  the  King, 

Where  twines  the  chaplet,  dealt  a  mighty  blow 

Which  fell'd  him  to  the  earth,  and  o'er  him  stood 

And  shouted  :  Since  by  thee  defilement  came, 

What  blood  so  meet  as  thine  to  wash  it  out  ? 

What  hand  to  strike  thee  meet  as  mine,  the  hand 

Of  sEpytus,  thy  murder V  master's  son  ?  — 

But,  gazing  at  him  from  the  ground,  the  King  .  .  . 

Is  it,  then,  thou  ?  he  murmur'd  ;  and  with  that, 


ME  ROPE.  377 

He  bow'd  his  head,  and  deeply  groan'd,  and  died. 

Till  then  we  all  seem'd  stone,  but  then  a  cry 

Broke  from  the  Dorian  lords ;  forward  they  rush'd 

To  circle  the  prince  round  —  when  suddenly 

Laias  in  arms  sprang  to  his  nephew's  side, 

Crying  :    O  ye  Messenians,  will  ye  leave 

The  son  to  perish  as  ye  left  the  sire  ? 

And  from  that  moment  I  saw  nothing  clear ; 

For  from  all  sides  a  deluge,  as  it  seem'd 

Burst  o'er  the  altar  and  the  Dorian  lords, 

Of  holiday-clad  citizens  transform'd 

To  armed  warriors  ;  —  I  heard  vengeful  cries, 

I  heard  the  clash  of  weapons  ;  then  I  saw 

The  Dorians  lying  dead,  thy  son  hail'd  king. 

And,  truly,  one  who  sees,  what  seem'd  so  strong, 

The  power  of  this  tyrant  and  his  lords, 

Melt  like  a  passing  smoke,  a  nightly  dream, 

At  one  bold  word,  one  enterprising  blow  — 

Might  ask,  why  we  endured  their  yoke  so  long ; 

But  that  we  know  how  every  perilous  feat 

Of  daring,  easy  as  it  seems  when  done, 

Is  easy  at  no  moment  but  the  right. 

THE    CHORUS. 

Thou  speakest  well ;  but  here,  to  give  our  eyes 

Authentic  proof  of  what  thou  tell'st  our  ears, 

The  conquerors,  with  the  King's  dead  body,  come. 

[^Epytus,  Laias,  and  Arcas  come  in  with  the  dead 
body  of  POLYPHONTES,  followed  by  a  crowd  of  the 
Messenians. 

LAIAS. 

Sister,  from  this  day  forth  thou  art  no  more 
The  widow  of  a  husband  unavenged, 


378  ME  ROPE. 

The  anxious  mother  of  an  exiled  son. 
Thine  enemy  is  slain,  thy  son  is  king  ! 
Rejoice  with  us  !  and  trust  me,  he  who  wish'd 
Welfare  to  the  Messenian  state,  and  calm, 
Could  find  no  way  to  found  them  sure  as  this. 

/EPYTUS. 

Mother,  all  these  approve  me  ;  but  if  thou 
Approve  not  too,  I  have  but  half  my  joy. 

MEROPE. 

O  ^Epytus,  my  son,  behold,  behold 

This  iron  man,  my  enemy  and  thine, 

This  politic  sovereign,  lying  at  our  feet, 

With  blood-bespatter'd  robes,  and  chaplet  shorn  ! 

Inscrutable  as  ever,  see,  it  keeps 

Its  sombre  aspect  of  majestic  care, 

Of  solitary  thought,  unshared  resolve, 

Even  in  death,  that  countenance  austere  ! 

So  look'd  he,  when  to  Stenyclaros  first, 

A  new-made  wife,  I  from  Arcadia  came, 

And  found  him  at  my  husband's  side,  his  friend, 

His  kinsman,  his  right  hand  in  peace  and  war, 

Unsparing  in  his  service  of  his  toil, 

His  blood  —  to  me,  for  I  confess  it,  kind ; 

So  look'd  he  in  that  dreadful  day  of  death ; 

So,  when  he  pleaded  for  our  league  but  now. 

What  meantest  thou,  O  Polyphontes,  what 

Desired'st  thou,  what  truly  spurr'd  thee  on  ? 

Was  policy  of  state,  the  ascendency 

Of  the  Heracleidan  conquerors,  as  thou  said'st, 

Indeed  thy  lifelong  passion  and  sole  aim? 

Or  didst  thou  but,  as  cautious  schemers  use, 


MEkOPE,  379 

Cloak  thine  ambition  with  these  specious  words? 

I  know  not ;  just,  in  either  case,  the  stroke 

Which  laid  thee  low,  for  blood  requires  blood ; 

But  yet,  not  knowing  this,  I  triumph  not 

Over  thy  corpse,  —  triumph  not,  neither  mourn,  — 

For  I  find  worth  in  thee,  and  badness  too. 

What  mood  of  spirit,  therefore,  shall  we  call 

The  true  one  of  a  man  —  what  way  of  life 

His  fix'd  condition  and  perpetual  walk? 

None,  since  a  twofold  color  reigns  in  all. 

But  thou,  my  son,  study  to  make  prevail 

One  color  in  thy  life,  the  hue  of  truth ; 

That  justice,  that  sage  order,  not  alone 

Natural  vengeance,  may  maintain  thine  act, 

And  make  it  stand  indeed  the  will  of  Heaven. 

Thy  father's  passion  was  this  people's  ease, 

This  people's  anarchy,  thy  foe's  pretence. 

As  the  chiefs  rule,  my  son,  the  people  are. 

Unhappy  people,  where  the  chiefs  themselves 

Are,  like  the  mob,  vicious  and  ignorant ! 

So  rule,  that  even  thine  enemies  may  fail 

To  find  in  thee  a  fault  whereon  to  found, 

Of  tyrannous  harshness,  or  remissness  weak  — 

So  rule,  that  as  thy  father  thou  be  loved  ! 

So  rule,  that  as  his  foe  thou  be  obey'd  ! 

Take  these,  my  son,  over  thine  enemy's  corpse 

Thy  mother's  prayers  !  and  this  prayer  last  of  all : 

That  even  in  thy  victory  thou  show, 

Mortal,  the  moderation  of  a  man. 

^PVTUS. 

O  mother,  my  best  diligence  shall  be 

In  all  by  thy  experience  to  be  ruled 

Where  my  own  youth  falls  short !     But,  Laias,  now, 


380  ME  HOPE. 

First  work  after  such  victory,  let  us  go 
To  render  to  my  true  Messenians  thanks, 
To  the  Gods  grateful  sacrifice  ;  and  then, 
Assume  the  ensigns  of  my  father's  power. 

THE   CHORUS. 

Son  of  Cresphontes,  past  what  perils 
Com'st  thou,  guided  safe,  to  thy  home  ! 
What  things  daring  !  what  enduring  ! 
And  all  this  by  the  will  of  the  Gods. 


ELEGIAC    POEMS. 


THE  SCHOLAR-GYPSY.^ 

Go,  for  they  call  you,  shepherd,  from  the  hill ; 
Go,  shepherd,  and  untie  the  wattled  cotes  ! 

No  longer  leave  thy  wistful  flock  unfed, 
Nor  let  thy  bawling  fellows  rack  their  throats, 
Nor  the  cropped  grasses  shoot  another  head ; 
But  when  the  fields  are  still, 
And  the  tired  men  and  dogs  all  gone  to  rest, 
And  only  the  white  sheep  are  sometimes  seen 
Cross  and  recross  the  strips  of  moon-blanched 
green, 
Come,  shepherd,  and  again  renew  the  quest ! 

Here,  where  the  reaper  was  at  work  of  late,  — 
In  this  high  field's  dark  corner,  where  he  leaves 

His  coat,  his  basket,  and  his  earthen  cruse, 
And  in  the  sun  all  morning  binds  the  sheaves, 

Then  here  at  noon  comes  back  his  stores  to  use, — 
Here  will  I  sit  and  wait, 
While  to  my  ear  from  uplands  far  away 
The  bleating  of  the  folded  flocks  is  borne, 
With  distant  cries  of  reapers  in  the  corn,  — 
All  the  live  murmur  of  a  summer's  day. 

38i 


382  THE  SCHOLAR-GYFSY. 

Screened  is  this  nook  o'er  the  high,  half-reaped  field, 
And  here  till  sundown,  shepherd  !  will  I  be. 

Through  the  thick  corn  the  scarlet  poppies  peep, 
And  round  green  roots  and  yellowing  stalks  I  see 
Pale  blue  convolvulus  in  tendrils  creep ; 

And  air-swept  lindens  yield 
Their   scent,   and    rustle    down    their   perfumed 

showers 
Of  bloom  on  the  bent  grass  where  I  am  laid, 
And  bower  me  from  the  August-sun  with  shade ; 
And  the  eye  travels  down  to  Oxford's  towers. 

And  near  me  on  the  grass  lies  Glanvil's  book. 
Come,  let  me  read  the  oft-read  tale  again  ! 

The  story  of  that  Oxford  scholar  poor, 
Of  shining  parts  and  quick  inventive  brain, 
Who,  tired  of  knocking  at  preferment's  door, 
One  summer- morn  forsook 
His  friends,  and  went  to  learn  the  gypsy-lore, 

And  roamed  the  world  with   that  wild  brother- 
hood, 
And  came,  as  most  men  deemed,  to  little  good, 
But  came  to  Oxford  and  his  friends  no  more. 

But  once,  years  after,  in  the  country-lanes, 
Two  scholars,  whom  at  college  erst  he  knew, 

Met  him,  and  of  his  way  of  life  inquired ; 
Whereat  he  answered,  that  the  gypsy-crew, 

His  mates,  had  arts  to  rule  as  they  desired 
The  workings  of  men's  brains, 
And  they  can  bind  them  to  what  thoughts  they  will. 

"And  I,"  he  said,  "  the  secret  of  their  art, 

When  fully  learned,  will  to  the  world  impart ; 
But  it  needs  Heaven-sent  moments  for  this  skill." 


THE   SCHOLAR-GYPSY.  $8$ 

This  said,  he  left  them,  and  returned  no  more. 
But  rumors  hung  about  the  country-side, 

That  the  lost  Scholar  long  was  seen  to  stray, 
Seen  by  rare  glimpses,  pensive  and  tongue-tied, 
In  hat  of  antique  shape,  and  cloak  of  gray, 
The  same  the  gypsies  wore. 
Shepherds  had  met  him  on  the  Hurst  in  spring; 
At  some  lone  alehouse  in  the  Berkshire  moors, 
On  the  warm    ingle-bench,  the    smock- f rocked 
boors 
Had  found  him  seated  at  their  entering; 

But,  'mid  their  drink  and  clatter,  he  would  fly. 
And  I  myself  seem  half  to  know  thy  looks, 

And  put  the  shepherds,  wanderer!  on  thy  trace; 
And  boys  who  in  lone  wheat-fields  scare  the  rooks 

I  ask  if  thou  hast  passed  their  quiet  place; 
Or  in  my  boat  I  lie 
Moored  to  the  cool  bank  in  the  summer-heats, 

'Mid  wide  grass  meadows  which  the  sunshine  fills, 

And  watch  the  warm,  green-muffled  Cumner  hills, 
And  wonder  if  thou  haunt' st  their  shy  retreats. 

For  most,  I  know,  thou  lov'st  retired  ground! 
Thee  at  the  ferry  Oxford  riders  blithe, 

Returning  home  on  summer-nights,  have  met 
Crossing  the  stripling  Thames  at  Bab-lock- hithe, 
Trailing  in  the  cool  stream  thy  fingers  wet, 
As  the  punt's  rope  chops  round; 
And  leaning  backward  in 'a  pensive  dream, 
And  fostering  in  thy  lap  a  heap  of  flowers 
Plucked  in   shy  fields   and   distant  Wychwood 
bowers, 
And  thine  eyes  resting  on  the  moonlit  stream. 


384  Tl/K  SCHOLAR-GYPSY. 

And  then  they  land,  and  thou  art  seen  no  more  ! 
Maidens,  who  from  the  distant  hamlets  come 
To  dance  around  the  Fyfield  elm  in  May, 
Oft  through   the  darkening  fields    have   seen    thee 
roam, 
Or  cross  a  stile  into  the  public  way ; 
Oft  thou  hast  given  them  store 
Of  flowers,  —  the  frail-leafed,  white  anemone, 

Dark  bluebells  drenched  with  dews  of  summer  eves, 
And  purple  orchises  with  spotted  leaves,  — 
But  none  hath  words  she  can  report  of  thee  ! 

And,  above  Godstow  Bridge,  when  hay-time's  here 
In  June,  and  many  a  scythe  in  sunshine  flames, 

Men  who  through  those  wide  fields  of  breezy  grass, 
Where    black-winged   swallows  haunt  the  glittering 
Thames, 
To  bathe  in  the  abandoned  lasher  pass, 
Have  often  passed  thee  near 
Sitting  upon  the  river-bank  o'ergrown  ; 

Marked  thine  outlandish  garb,  thy  figure  spare, 
Thy  dark  vague  eyes,  and  soft  abstracted  air  : 
But,  when  they  came  from  bathing,  thou  wast  gone  ! 

At  some  lone  homestead  in  the  Cumner  hills, 
Where  at  her  open  door  the  housewife  darns, 
Thou  hast  been  seen,  or  hanging  on  a  gate 
To  watch  the  threshers  in  the  mossy  barns. 

Children,  who  early  range  these  slopes  and  late 
For  cresses  from  the  rills, 
Have  known  thee  eying,  all  an  April  day, 
The  springing  pastures  and  the  feeding  kine  ; 
And  marked  thee,  when  the  stars  come  out  and 
shine, 
Through  the  long  dewy  grass  move  slow  away. 


THE  SCHOLAR-GYPSY.  3§5 

In  autumn,  on  the  skirts  of  Bagley  Wood,  — 
Where  most  the  gypsies  by  the  turf-edged  way 
Pitch   their  smoked    tents,  and  every  bush   you 
see 
With  scarlet  patches  tagged  and  shreds  of  gray, 
Above  the  forest  ground  called  Thessaly,  — 
The  blackbird  picking  food 
Sees  thee,  nor  stops  his  meal,  nor  fears  at  all ; 
So  often  has  he  known  thee  past  him  stray, 
Rapt,  twirling  in  thy  hand  a  withered  spray, 
And  waiting  for  the  spark  from  heaven  to  fall. 

And  once,  in  winter,  on  the  causeway  chill 

Where  home  through  flooded  fields  foot-travellers  go, 

Have  I  not  passed  thee  on  the  wooden  bridge 
Wrapped  in  thy  cloak  and  battling  with  the  snow, 
Thy  face  toward  Hinksey  and  its  wintry  ridge  ? 
And  thou  hast  climbed  the  hill, 
And  gained  the  white  brow  of  the  Cumner  range ; 
Turned   once    to  watch,  while    thick   the   snow- 
flakes  fall, 
The  line  of  festal  light  in  Christ-church  hall : 
Then  sought  thy  straw  in  some  sequestered  grange. 

But  what  —  I  dream  !     Two  hundred  years  are  flown 
Since  first  thy  story  ran  through  Oxford  halls, 
And  the  grave  Glanvil  did  the  tale  inscribe 
That  thou  wert  wandered  from  the  studious  walls 
To  learn  strange  arts,  and  join  a  gypsy-tribe. 
And  thou  from  earth  art  gone 
Long  since,  and  in  some  quiet  churchyard  laid,  — 
Some    country-nook,    where    o'er    thy    unknown 

grave 
Tall  grasses  and  white  flowering  nettles  wave, 
Under  a  dark,  red-fruited  yew-tree's  shade. 


3S6  THE   SCHOLAR-GYPSY. 

—  No,  no,  thou  hast  not  felt  the  lapse  of  hours  ! 
For  what  wears  out  the  life  of  mortal  men  ? 

'Tis  that  from  change  to  change  their  being  rolls; 
Tis  that  repeated  shocks,  again,  again, 

Exhaust  the  energy  of  strongest  souls, 
And  numb  the  elastic  powers, 
Till  having  used  our  nerves  with  bliss  and  teen, 

And  tired  upon  a  thousand  schemes  our  wit, 

To  the  just-pausing  Genius  we  remit 
Our  well-worn  life,  and  are  —  what  we  have  been. 

Thou  hast  not  lived,  why  shouldst  thou  perish,  so  ? 
Thou  hadst  one  aim,  one  business,  one  desire  ; 

Else  wert  thou   long   since   numbered  with    the 
dead  ! 
Else  hadst  thou  spent,  like  other  men,  thy  fire  ! 
The  generations  of  thy  peers  are  fled, 
And  we  ourselves  shall  go  ; 
But  thou  possessest  an  immortal  lot, 
And  we  imagine  thee  exempt  from  age, 
And  living  as  thou  liv'st  on  Glanvil's  page, 
Because  thou  hadst  —  what  we,  alas  !  have  not. 

For  early  didst  thou  leave  the  world,  with  powers 
Fresh,  undiverted  to  the  world  without, 

Firm  to  their  mark,  not  spent  on  other  things ; 
Free  from  the  sick  fatigue,  the  languid  doubt, 
Which  much  to  have  tried,  in  much  been  baflled, 
brings. 
O  life  unlike  to  ours  ! 
Who  fluctuate  idly  without  term  or  scope, 

Of  whom    each   strives,  nor  knows  for  what   he 

strives, 
And  each  half  lives  a  hundred  different  lives; 
Who  wait  like  thee,  but  not,  like  thee,  in  hope. 


THE   SCHOLAR-GYPSY.  387 

Thou  waitest  for  the  spark  from  heaven  !  and  we, 
Light  half-believers  of  our  casual  creeds, 

Who  never  deeply  felt,  nor  clearly  willed, 
Whose  insight  never  has  borne  fruit  in  deeds, 

Whose  vague  resolves  never  have  been  fulfilled  ; 
For  whom  each  year  we  see 
Breeds  new  beginnings,  disappointments  new  • 

Who  hesitate  and  falter  life  away, 

And  lose  to-morrow  the  ground  won  to-day  — 
Ah  !  do  not  we,  wanderer  !  await  it  too  ? 

Yes,  we  await  it !  but  it  still  delays, 

And  then  we  suffer  !  and  amongst  us  one, 
Who  most  has  suffered,  takes  dejectedly 
His  seat  upon  the  intellectual  throne  ; 
And  all  his  store  of  sad  experience  he 
Lays  bare  of  wretched  days  ; 
Tells  us  his  misery's  birth  and  growth  and  signs, 
And  how  the  dying  spark  of  hope  was  fed, 
And  how  the  breast  was  soothed,  and   how  the 
head, 
And  all  his  hourly  varied  anodynes. 

This  for  our  wisest !  and  we  others  pine, 

And  wish  the  long  unhappy  dream  would  end, 

And  waive  all  claim  to  bliss,  and  try  to  bear ; 
With  close-lipped  patience  for  our  only  friend,  — 
Sad  patience,  too  near  neighbor  to  despair,  — 
But  none  has  hope  like  thine  ! 
Thou    through    the  fields    and   through  the  woods 
dost  stray, 
Roaming  the  country-side,  a  truant  boy, 
Nursing  thy  project  in  unclouded  joy, 
And  every  doubt  long  blown  by  time  away. 


388  THE  SCHOLAR-GYPSY. 

Oh,  born  in  days  when  wits  were  fresh  and  clear, 
And  life  ran  gayly  as  the  sparkling  Thames  ; 

Before  this  strange  disease  of  modern  life, 
With  its  sick  hurry,  its  divided  aims, 

Its  heads  o'ertaxed,  its  palsied  hearts,  was  rife,  — 
Fly  hence,  our  contact  fear  ! 
Still  fly,  plunge  deeper  in  the  bowering  wood  ! 

Averse,  as  Dido  did  with  gesture  stern 

From  her  false  friend's  approach  in  Hades  turn, 
Wave  us  away,  and  keep  thy  solitude  ! 

Still  nursing  the  unconquerable  hope, 
Still  clutching  the  inviolable  shade, 

With  a  free,  onward  impulse  brushing  through, 
By  night,  the  silvered  branches  of  the  glade,  — 

Far  on  the  forest-skirts,  where  none  pursue, 
On  some  mild  pastoral  slope 
Emerge,  and  resting  on  the  moonlit  pales 

Freshen  thy  flowers  as  in  former  years 

With  dew,  or  listen  with  enchanted  ears, 
From  the  dark  dingles,  to  the  nightingales  ! 

But  fly  our  paths,  our  feverish  contact  fly  ! 
For  strong  the  infection  of  our  mental  strife, 

Which,  though  it  gives  no  bliss,  yet  spoils  for  rest ; 
And  we  should  win  thee  from  thy  own  fair  life, 

Like  us  distracted,  and  like  us  unblest. 
Soon,  soon  thy  cheer  would  die, 
Thy  hopes  grow  timorous,  and  unfixed  thy  powers, 

And  thy  clear  aims  be  cross  and  shifting  made  : 

And  then  thy  glad  perennial  youth  would  fade, 
Fade,  and  grow  old  at  last,  and  die  like  ours. 

Then  fly  our  greetings,  fly  our  speech  and  smiles  ! 
—  As  some  grave  Tyrian  trader,  from  the  sea, 


TIIYRSIS. 


389 


Descried  at  sunrise  an  emerging  prow- 
Lifting  the  cool-haired  creepers  stealthily, 
The  fringes  of  a  southward-facing  brow 
Among  the  ^Egean  isles  ; 
And  saw  the  merry  Grecian  coaster  come, 

Freighted  with  amber  grapes,  and  Chian  wine, 
Green    bursting    figs,    and    tunnies    steeped    in 
brine, 
And  knew  the  intruders  on  his  ancient  home,  — 

The  young  light-hearted  masters  of  the  waves,  — 
And  snatched  his  rudder,  and  shook  out  more  sail, 

And  day  and  night  held  on  indignantly 
O'er  the  blue  Midland  waters  with  the  gale, 
Betwixt  the  Syrtes  and  soft  Sicily, 
To  where  the  Atlantic  raves 
Outside  the  western  straits,  and  unbent  sails 

There  where  down  cloudy  cliffs,  through  sheets 

of  foam, 
Shy  traffickers,  the  dark  Iberians  come ; 
And  on  the  beach  undid  his  corded  bales. 


THYRSIS* 


A  Monody,  to  commemorate  the  author's  friend, 
Arthur  Hugh  Clough,  who  died  at  Florence,  1S61. 


How  changed  is  here  each  spot  man  makes  or  fills  ! 
In  the  two  Hinkseys  nothing  keeps  the  same  ; 
The  village  street  its  haunted  mansion  lacks, 
And  from  the  sign  is  gone  Sibylla's  name. 

And  from  the  roofs  the  twisted  chimney-stacks. 
Are  ye  too  changed,  ye  hills  ? 


39°  THYRSIS. 

See,  'tis  no  foot  of  unfamiliar  men 

To-night  from  Oxford  up  your  pathway  strays  ! 

Here  came  I  often,  often,  in  old  days,  — 
Thyrsis  and  I :  we  still  had  Thyrsis  then. 

Runs  it  not  here,  the  track  by  Childsworth  Farm, 
Past  the  high  wood,  to  where  the  elm-tree  crowns 
The  hill  behind  whose  ridge  the  sunset  flames? 
The  single-elm,  that  looks  on  Ilsley  Downs, 

The    Vale,    the    three    lone   wears,    the   youthful 
Thames  ? 
This  winter-eve  is  warm  ; 
Humid  the  air ;  leafless,  yet  soft  as  spring, 
The  tender  purple  spray  on  copse  and  briers  ; 
And  that  sweet  city  with  her  dreaming  spires, 
She  needs  not  June  for  beauty's  heightening. 

Lovely  all  times  she  lies,  lovely  to-night !  — 
Only,  methinks,  some  loss  of  habit's  power 

Befalls  me  wandering  through  this  upland  dim. 
Once  passed  I  blindfold  here,  at  any  hour ; 

Now  seldom  come  I,  since  I  came  with  him. 
That  single  elm-tree  bright 
Against  the  west  —  I  miss  it !  is  it  gone  ? 

We  prized  it  clearly ;  while  it  stood,  we  said, 

Our  friend  the  Gypsy-Scholar  was  not  dead  ; 
^Yhile  the  tree  lived,  he  in  these  fields  lived  on. 

Too  rare,  too  rare,  grow  now  my  visits  here, 
But  once  I  knew  each  field,  each  flower,  each  stick  ; 

And  with  the  country-folk  acquaintance  made 
By  barn  in  threshing-time,  by  new-built  rick. 
Here,  too,  our  shepherd-pipes  we  first  assayed. 
Ah  me  !  this  many  a  year 
My  pipe  is  lost,  my  shepherd's-holiday  ! 


THYRSIS.  391 

Needs  must  I  lose  them,  needs  with  heavy  heart 
Into  the  world  and  wave  of  men  depart, 
But  Thyrsis  of  his  own  will  went  away. 

It  irked  him  to  be  here,  he  could  not  rest. 
He  loved  each  simple  joy  the  country  yields, 

He  loved  his  mates ;  but  yet  he  could  not  keep, 
For  that  a  shadow  lowered  on  the  fields, 

Here  with  the  shepherds  and  the  silly  sheep. 
Some  life  of  men  unblest 
He  knew,  which  made  him  droop,  and  filled  his 
head. 
He  went ;  his  piping  took  a  troubled  sound 
Of  storms  that  rage  outside  our  happy  ground ; 
He  could  not  wait  their  passing ;  he  is  dead. 

So,  some  tempestuous  morn  in  early  June, 

When  the  year's  primal  burst  of  bloom  is  o'er, 

Before  the  roses  and  the  longest  day,  — 
When  garden-walks,  and  all  the  grassy  floor, 

With  blossoms  red  and  white  of  fallen  May, 
And  chestnut-flowers,  are  strewn,  — 
So  have  I  heard  the  cuckoo's  parting  cry, 

From  the  wet  field,  through  the  vexed  garden-trees, 

Come  with  the  volleying  rain  and  tossing  breeze  : 
The  bloom  is  gone,  and  with  the  bloom  go  I .' 

Too  quick  despairer,  wherefore  wilt  thou  go? 
Soon  will  the  high  midsummer  pomps  come  on, 

Soon  will  the  musk  carnations  break  and  swell, 
Soon  shall  we  have  gold- dusted  snapdragon, 
Sweet-william  with  his  homely  cottage-smell, 
And  stocks  in  fragrant  blow  ; 
Roses  that  down  the  alleys  shine  afar, 
And  open,  jasmine-muffled  lattices, 


392  TIIYRSIS. 

And  groups  under  the  dreaming  garden-trees, 
And  the  full  moon,  and  the  white  evening-star. 

He  hearkens  not !  light  comer,  he  is  flown  ! 
What  matters  it?  next  year  he  will  return, 

And  we  shall  have  him  in  the  sweet  spring-days. 
With  whitening  hedges,  and  uncrumpling  fern, 

And  bluebells  trembling  by  the  forest-ways, 
And  scent  of  hay  new-mown. 
But  Thyrsis  never  more  we  swains  shall  see,  — 

See  him  come  back,  and  cut  a  smoother  reed, 

And  blow  a  strain  the  world  at  last  shall  heed  ; 
For  Time,  not  Corydon,  hath  conquered  thee  ! 

Alack,  for  Corydon  no  rival  now  !  — 

But  when  Sicilian  shepherds  lost  a  mate, 

Some  good  survivor  with  his  flute  would  go, 
Piping  a  ditty  sad  for  Bion's  fate  ; 

And  cross  the  unpermitted  ferry's  flow, 
And  relax  Pluto's  brow, 
And  make  leap  up  with  joy  the  beauteous  head 

Of  Proserpine,  among  whose  crowned  hair 

Are  flowers  first  opened  on  Sicilian  air, 
And  flute  his  friend,  like  Orpheus,  from  the  dead. 

Oh,  easy  access  to  the  hearer's  grace 

When  Dorian  shepherds  sang  to  Proserpine  ! 

For  she  herself  had  trod  Sicilian  fields, 
She  knew  the  Dorian  water's  gush  divine, 

She  knew  each  lily  white  which  Enna  yields, 
Each  rose  with  blushing  face  ; 
She  loved  the  Dorian  pipe,  the  Dorian  strain. 

But  ah  !  of  our  poor  Thames  she  never  heard  ; 

Her  foot  the  Cumner  cowslips  never  stirred  ; 
And  we  should  tease  her  with  our  plaint  in  vain. 


thvrsis.  393 

Well !  wind-dispersed  and  vain  the  words  will  be  ; 
Yet,  Thyrsis,  let  me  give  my  grief  its  hour 

In  the  old  haunt,  and  find  our  tree-topped  hill ! 
Who,  if  not  I,  for  questing  here  hath  power? 

I  know  the  wood  which  hides  the  daffodil ; 
I  know  the  Fyfield  tree  ; 
I  know  what  white,  what  purple  fritillaries 

The  grassy  harvest  of  the  river-fields, 

Above  by  Ensham,  down  by  Sandford,  yields ; 
And  what  sedged  brooks  are  Thames's  tributaries ; 

I  know  these  slopes  :  who  knows  them  if  not  I  ? 
But  many  a  dingle  on  the  loved  hillside, 

With  thorns  once  studded,  old  white-blossomed 
trees, 
Where  thick  the  cowslips  grew,  and  far  descried 
High  towered  the  spikes  of  purple  orchises, 
Hath  since  our  day  put  by 
The  coronals  of  that  forgotten  time ; 

Down   each   green  bank  hath  gone  the  plough- 
boy's  team, 
And  only  in  the  hidden  brookside  gleam 
Primroses,  orphans  of  the  flowery  prime. 

Where  is  the  girl  who  by  the  boatman's  door, 
Above  the  locks,  above  the  boating  throng, 

Unmoored    our  skiff  when  through  the  Wytham 
flats, 
Red  loosestrife  and  blond  meadow-sweet  among, 
And  darting  swallows  and  light  water-gnats, 
We  tracked  the  shy  Thames  shore  ? 
Where  are  the  mowers,  who,  as  the  tiny  swell 
Of  our  boat  passing  heaved  the  river-grass, 
Stood  with  suspended  scythe  to  see  us  pass  ?  — ■ 
They  all  are  gone,  and  thou  art  gone  as  well ! 


394 


Tf/YKSIS. 


Yes,  thou  art  gone  !  and  round  me  too  the  night 
In  ever-nearing  circle  weaves  her  shade. 

I  see  her  veil  draw  soft  across  the  day, 
I  feel  her  slowly  chilling  breath  invade 

The   cheek   grown   thin,  the    brown  hair  sprent 
with  gray ; 
I  feel  her  finger  light 
Laid  pausefully  upon  life's  headlong  train,  — 
The  foot  less  prompt  to  meet  the  morning  dew, 
The  heart  less  bounding  at  emotion  new, 
And  hope,  once  crushed,  less  quick  to  spring  again. 

And  long  the  way  appears,  which  seemed  so  short 
To  the  less-practised  eye  of  sanguine  youth  ; 

And  high  the  mountain  tops,  in  cloudy  air,  — 
The  mountain  tops  where  is  the  throne  of  Truth, 

Tops  in  life's  morning-sun  so  bright  and  bare  ! 
Unreachable  the  fort 
Of  the  long-battered  world  uplifts  its  wall ; 

And  strange  and  vain  the  earthly  turmoil  grows, 

And  near  and  real  the  charm  of  thy  repose, 
And  night  as  welcome  as  a  friend  would  fall. 

But  hush  !  the  upland  hath  a  sudden  loss 
Of  quiet !     Look,  adown  the  dusk  hillside, 
A  troop  of  Oxford  hunters  going  home, 
As  in  old  days,  jovial  and  talking,  ride  ! 

From    hunting  with    the   Berkshire  hounds   they 
come. 
Quick  !  let  me  fly,  and  cross 
Into  yon  farther  field  !     'Tis  done  ;  and  see, 
Backed  by  the  sunset,  which  doth  glorify 
The  orange  and  pale  violet  evening-sky, 
Bare  on  its  lonely  ridge,  the  Tree  !  the  Tree  ! 


T/fyxs/s.  395 

I  take  the  omen  !     Eve  lets  down  her  veil, 
The  white  fog  creeps  from  bush  to  bush  about, 

The  west  unflushes,  the  high  stars  grow  bright, 
And  in  the  scattered  farms  the  lights  come  out. 

I  cannot  reach  the  signal-tree  to-night, 
Yet,  happy  omen,  hail ! 
Hear  it  from  thy  broad  lucent  Arno-vale 

(For  there  thine  earth-forgetting  eyelids  keep 

The  morningless  and  unawakening  sleep 
Under  the  flowery  oleanders  pale) ; 

Hear  it,  O  Thyrsis,  still  our  tree  is  there  !  — 

Ah,  vain  !     These  English  fields,  this  upland  dim, 

These  brambles  pale  with  mist  engarlanded, 
That  lone,  sky-pointing  tree,  are  not  for  him  : 

To  a  boon  southern  country  he  is  fled, 
And  now  in  happier  air, 
Wandering  with  the  great  Mother's  train  divine 

(And  purer  or  more  subtile  soul  than  thee, 

I  trow  the  mighty  Mother  doth  not  see) 
Within  a  folding  of  the  Apennine,  — 

Thou  hearest  the  immortal  chants  of  old  ! 
Putting  his  sickle  to  the  perilous  grain 

In  the  hot  cornfield  of  the  Phrygian  king, 
For  thee  the  Lityerses-song  again 

Young    Daphnis   with    his    silver   voice    doth 
sing ;  r9 
Sings  his  Sicilian  fold, 
His  sheep,  his  hapless  love,  his  blinded  eyes ; 
And  how  a  call  celestial  round  him  rang, 
And   heavenward   from   the  fountain-brink  he 
sprang, 
And  all  the  marvel  of  the  golden  skies. 


396  Ti/VRs/s. 

There  thou  art  gone,  and  me  thou  leavest  here 
Sole  in  these  fields  !  yet  will  I  not  despair. 

Despair  I  will  not,  while  I  yet  descry 
'Neath  the  soft  canopy  of  English  air 

That  lonely  tree  against  the  western  sky. 
Still,  still  these  slopes,  'tis  clear, 
Our  Gypsy-Scholar  haunts,  outliving  thee  ! 

Fields  where  soft  sheep  from  cages  pull  the  hay, 

Woods  with  anemones  in  flower  till  May, 
Know  him  a  wanderer  still ;  then  why  not  me  ? 

A  fugitive  and  gracious  light  he  seeks, 
Shy  to  illumine  ;  and  I  seek  it  too. 

This  does  not  come  with  houses  or  with  gold, 
With  place,  with  honor,  and  a  flattering  crew ; 

'Tis  not  in  the  world's  market  bought  and  sold ; 
But  the  smooth-slipping  weeks 
Drop  by,  and  leave  its  seeker  still  untired ; 

Out  of  the  heed  of  mortals  he  is  gone, 

He  wends  unfollowed,  he  must  house  alone  ; 
Yet  on  he  fares,  by  his  own  heart  inspired. 

Thou  too,  O  Thyrsis,  on  like  quest  wast  bound  ! 
Thou  wanderedst  with  me  for  a  little  hour. 

Men  gave  thee  nothing  ;  but  this  happy  quest, 
If  men  esteemed  thee  feeble,  gave  thee  power, 
If  men  procured  thee  trouble,  gave  thee  rest. 
And  this  rude  Cumner  ground, 
Its  fir-topped  Hurst,  its  farms,  its  quiet  fields, 
Here  cam'st  thou  in  thy  jocund  youthful  time, 
Here  was  thine  height  of  strength,  thy  golden 
prime  ! 
And  still  the  haunt  beloved  a  virtue  yields. 


MEMORIAL    VERSES.  397 

What  though  the  music  of  thy  rustic  flute 
Kept  not  for  long  its  happy,  country  tone ; 

Lost  it  too  soon,  and  learnt  a  stormy  note 
Of  men  contention-tost,  of  men  who  groan, 

Which  tasked   thy  pipe  too  sore,  and   tired  thy 
throat  — 
It  failed,  and  thou  wast  mute  ! 
Yet  hadst  thou  alway  visions  of  our  light, 

And  long  with  men  of  care  thou  couldst  not  stay, 
And  soon  thy  foot  resumed  its  wandering  way, 
Left  human  haunt,  and  on  alone  till  night. 

Too  rare,  too  rare,  grow  now  my  visits  here  ! 
'Mid  city-noise,  not,  as  with  thee  of  yore, 

Thyrsis  !  in  reach  of  sheep-bells  is  my  home. 
—  Then    through    the   great    town's   harsh,    heart- 
wearying  roar, 
Let  in  thy  voice  a  whisper  often  come, 
To  chase  fatigue  and  fear  : 
Why  faintest  thou  ?     I  wandered  till  I  died. 
Roam  on  /     The  light  we  sought  is  shining  still. 
Dost  thou  ask  proof?    Our  tree  yet  crowns  the  hill, 
Our  Scholar  travels  yet  the  loved  hillside. 


MEMORIAL   VERSES. 

APRIL,    1850. 

Goethe  in  Weimar  sleeps  ;  and  Greece, 
Long  since,  saw  Byron's  struggle  cease. 
But  one  such  death  remained  to  come  : 
The  last  poetic  voice  is  dumb,  — 
We  stand  to-day  by  Wordsworth's  tomb. 


I98  MEMORIAL    VERSES. 

When  Byron's  eyes  were  shut  in  death, 
We  bowed  our  head,  and  held  our  breath. 
He  taught  us  little,  but  our  soul 
Had  felt  him  like  the  thunder's  roll. 
With  shivering  heart  the  strife  we  saw 
Of  passion  with  eternal  law ; 
And  yet  with  reverential  awe 
We  watched  the  fount  of  fiery  life 
Which  served  for  that  Titanic  strife. 

When  Goethe's  death  was  told,  we  said,  — 

Sunk,  then,  is  Europe's  sagest  head. 

Physician  of  the  iron  age, 

Goethe  has  done  his  pilgrimage. 

He  took  the  suffering  human  race, 

He  read  each  wound,  each  weakness  clear ; 

And  struck  his  finger  on  the  place, 

And  said,  Thou  ailest  here,  and  here  ! 

He  looked  on  Europe's  dying  hour 

Of  fitful  dream  and  feverish  power  ; 

His  eye  plunged  down  the  weltering  strife, 

The  turmoil  of  expiring  life  : 

He  said,  The  end  is  eiierywhere, 

Art  still  has  truth,  take  refuge  there  / 

And  he  was  happy,  if  to  know 

Causes  of  things,  and  far  below 

His  feet  to  see  the  lurid  flow 

Of  terror,  and  insane  distress, 

And  headlong  fate,  be  happiness. 

And  Wordsworth  !     Ah,  pale  ghosts,  rejoice  ! 
For  never  has  such  soothing  voice 
Been  to  your  shadowy  world  conveyed, 
Since  erst,  at  morn,  some  wandering  shade 


MEMORIAL    VERSES.  399 

Heard  the  clear  song  of  Orpheus  come 
Through  Hades  and  the  mournful  gloom. 
Wordsworth  has  gone  from  us  ;  and  ye, 
Ah,  may  ye  feel  his  voice  as  we  ! 
He  too  upon  a  wintry  clime 
Had  fallen,  —  on  this  iron  time 
Of  doubts,  disputes,  distractions,  fears. 
He  found  us  when  the  age  had  bound 
Our  souls  in  its  benumbing  round  ; 
He  spoke,  and  loosed  our  heart  in  tears. 
He  laid  us  as  we  lay  at  birth 
On  the  cool  flowery  lap  of  earth  : 
Smiles  broke  from  us,  and  we  had  ease ; 
The  hills  were  round  us,  and  the  breeze 
Went  o'er  the  sunlit  fields  again  ; 
Our  foreheads  felt  the  wind  and  rain. 
Our  youth  returned  ;  for  there  was  shed 
On  spirits  that  had  long  been  dead, 
Spirits  dried  up  and  closely  furled, 
The  freshness  of  the  early  world. 

Ah  !  since  dark  days  still  bring  to  light 
Man's  prudence  and  man's  fiery  might, 
Time  may  restore  us  in  his  course 
Goethe's  sage  mind  and  Byron's  force  ; 
But  where  will  Europe's  latter  hour 
Again  find  Wordsworth's  healing  power? 
Others  will  teach  us  how  to  dare, 
And  against  fear  our  breast  to  steel : 
Others  will  strengthen  us  to  bear  — 
But  who,  ah  !  who  will  make  us  feel  ? 
The  cloud  of  mortal  destiny, 
Others  will  front  it  fearlessly  ; 
But  who,  like  him,  will  put  it  by  ? 


400  STANZAS. 

Keep  fresh  the  grass  upon  his  grave. 
O  Rotha,  with  thy  living  wave  ! 
Sing  him  thy  best !  for  few  or  none 
Hear  thy  voice  right,  now  he  is  gone. 


STANZAS. 
In  Memory  of  Edward  Quillinan. 

I  saw  him  sensitive  in  frame, 

I  knew  his  spirits  low ; 
And  wished  him  health,  success,  and  fame 

I  do  not  wish  it  now. 

For  these  are  all  their  own  reward, 

And  leave  no  good  behind ; 
They  try  us,  oftenest  make  us  hard, 

Less  modest,  pure,  and  kind. 

Alas  !  yet  to  the  suffering  man, 

In  this  his  mortal  state, 
Friends  could  not  give  what  fortune  -can,  — 

Health,  ease,  a  heart  elate. 

But  he  is  now  by  fortune  foiled 

No  more  ;  and  we  retain 
The  memory  of  a  man  unspoiled, 

Sweet,  generous,  and  humane  ; 

With  all  the  fortunate  have  not, 

With  gentle  voice  and  brow. 
—  Alive,  we  would  have  changed  his  lot: 

We  would  not  change  it  now. 


STANZAS  FROM  CARNAC.  401 


STANZAS  FROM  CARNAC. 

Far  on  its  rocky  knoll  descried, 
Saint  Michael's  chapel  cuts  the  sky. 
I  climbed ;  beneath  me,  bright  and  wide, 
Lay  the  lone  coast  of  Brittany. 

Bright  in  the  sunset,  weird  and  still, 
It  lay  beside  the  Atlantic  wave, 
As  though  the  wizard  Merlin's  will 
Yet  charmed  it  from  his  forest-grave. 

Behind  me  on  their  grassy  sweep, 
Bearded  with  lichen,  scrawled  and  gray, 
The  giant  stones  of  Carnac  sleep, 
In  the  mild  evening  of  the  May. 

No  priestly  stern  procession  now 
Streams  through  their  rows  of  pillars  old ; 
No  victims  bleed,  no  Druids  bow  : 
Sheep  make  the  daisied  aisles  their  fold. 

From  bush  to  bush  the  cuckoo  flies, 
The  orchis  red  gleams  everywhere  ; 
Gold  furze  with  broom  in  blossom  vies, 
The  bluebells  perfume  all  the  air. 

And  o'er  the  glistening,  lonely  land, 
Rise  up,  all  round,  the  Christian  spires ; 
The  church  of  Carnac,  by  the  strand, 
Catches  the  westering  sun's  last  fires. 

And  there,  across  the  watery  way, 
See,  low  above  the  tide  at  flood, 
The  sickle-sweep  of  Quiberon  Bay, 
Whose  beach  once  ran  with  loyal  blood  ! 


4-02  A    SOUTHERN  NIGHT. 

And  beyond  that,  the  Atlantic  wide  !  — 
All  round,  no  soul,  no  boat,  no  hail ; 
But,  on  the  horizon's  verge  descried, 
Hangs,  touched  with  light,  one  snowy  sail. 

Ah  !  where  is  he  who  should  have  come  2° 
Where  that  far  sail  is  passing  now, 
Past  the  Loire's  mouth,  and  by  the  foam 
Of  Finistere's  unquiet  brow,  — 

Home,  round  into  the  English  wave?  — 
He  tarries  where  the  Rock  of  Spain 
Mediterranean  waters  lave ; 
He  enters  not  the  Atlantic  main. 

Oh,  could  he  once  have  reached  this  air 
Freshened  by  plunging  tides^by  showers  ! 
Have  felt  this  breath  he  loved,  of  fair 
Cool  Northern  fields,  and  grass,  and  flowers ! 

He  longed  for  it  —  pressed  on.     In  vain  ! 
At  the  Straits  failed  that  spirit  brave. 
The  South  was  parent  of  his  pain, 
The  South  is  mistress  of  his  grave. 


A   SOUTHERN  NIGHT. 

The  sandy  spits,  the  shore-locked  lakes, 

Melt  into  open,  moonlit  sea ; 
The  soft  Mediterranean  breaks 
At  my  feet,  free. 

Dotting  the  fields  of  corn  and  vine, 

Like  ghosts,  the  huge  gnarled  olives  stand ; 
Behind,  that  lovely  mountain  line  ! 
While,  by  the  strand,  — 


A    SOUTHERN  NIGHT.  4O3 

Cette,  with  its  glistening  houses  white, 
Curves  with  the  curving  beach  away 
To  where  the  light-house  beacons  bright 
Far  in  the  bay. 

Ah  !  such  a  night,  so  soft,  so  lone. 

So  moonlit,  saw  me  once  of  yore 2I 
Wander  unquiet,  and  my  own 
Vexed  heart  deplore. 

But  now  that  trouble  is  forgot : 

Thy  memory,  thy  pain,  to-night, 
My  brother  !  and  thine  early  lot,22 
Possess  me  quite. 

The  murmur  of  this  Midland  deep 

Is  heard  to-night  around  thy  grave, 
There,  where  Gibraltar's  cannoned  steep 
O'erfrowns  the  wave. 

For  there,  with  bodily  anguish  keen, 
With  Indian  heats  at  last  foredone, 
With  public  toil  and  private  teen,  — 
Thou  sank'st  alone. 

Slow  to  a  stop,  at  morning  gray, 

I  see  the  smoke-crowned  vessel  come  : . 
Slow  round  her  paddles  dies  away 
The  seething  foam. 

A  boat  is  lowered  from  her  side ; 

Ah,  gently  place  him  on  the  bench  ! 
That  spirit  —  if  all  have  not  yet  died  — 
A  breath  might  quench. 

Is  this  the  eye,  the  footstep  fast, 

The  mien  of  youth,  we  used  to  see? 
Poor,  gallant  boy  !  for  such  thou  wast, 
Still  art,  to  me. 


404  A   SOUTHERN  NIGHT. 

The  limbs  their  wonted  tasks  refuse ; 

The  eyes  are  glazed,  thou  canst  not  speak ; 
And  whiter  than  thy  white  burnous 
That  wasted  cheek  ! 

Enough  !     The  boat,  with  quiet  shock, 

Unto  its  haven  coming  nigh, 

Touches,  and  on  Gibraltar's  rock 

Lands  thee,  to  die. 

Ah  me  !     Gibraltar's  strand  is  far ; 
But  farther  yet  across  the  brine 
Thy  dear  wife's  ashes  buried  are, 
Remote  from  thine. 

For  there,  where  morning's  sacred  fount 

Its  golden  rain  on  earth  confers, 
The  snowy  Himalayan  Mount 
O'ershadows  hers. 

Strange  irony  of  fate,  alas  ! 

Which,  for  two  jaded  English,  saves, 
When  from  their  dusty  life  they  pass, 
Such  peaceful  graves  ! 

In  cities  should  we  English  lie, 

Where  cries  are  rising  ever  new, 
And  men's  incessant  stream  goes  by,  — 
We  who  pursue 

Our  business  with  unslackening  stride, 

Traverse  in  troops,  with  care-filled  breast. 
The  soft  Mediterranean  side, 
The  Nile,  the  East,  — 

And  see  all  sights  from  pole  to  pole, 

And  glance,  and  nod,  and  bustle  by; 
And  never  once  possess  our  soul 
Before  we  die. 


A   SOUTHERN  NIGHT.  405 

Not  by  those  hoary  Indian  hills, 

Not  by  this  gracious  Midland  sea 
Whose  floor  to-night  sweet  moonshine  fills, 
Should  our  graves  be. 

Some  sage,  to  whom  the  world  was  dead,, 
And  men  were  specks,  and  life  a  play ; 
Who  made  the  roots  of  trees  his  bed, 
And  once  a  day 

With  staff  and  gourd  his  way  did  bend 

To  villages  and  homes  of  man, 
For  food  to  keep  him  till  he  end 
His  mortal  span,  — 

And  the  pure  goal  of  being  reach ; 

Gray-headed,  wrinkled,  clad  in  white ; 
Without  companion,  without  speech, 
By  day  and  night 

Pondering  God's  mysteries  untold, 

And  tranquil  as  the  glacier-snows, — 
He  by  those  Indian  mountains  old 
Might  well  repose. 

Some  gray  crusading  knight  austere, 

Who  bore  Saint  Louis  company, 
And  came  home  hurt  to  death,  and  here 
Landed  to  die ; 

Some  youthful  troubadour,  whose  tongue 
Filled  Europe  once  with  his  love-pain, 
Who  here  outworn  had  sunk,  and  sung 
His  dying  strain ; 

Some  girl,  who  here  from  castle-bower, 
With  furtive  step  and  cheek  of  flame, 
'Twixt  myrtle-hedges  all  in  flower 
By  moonlight  came 


406  A  SOUTHERN  NIGHT. 

To  meet  her  pirate-lover's  ship, 

And  from  the  wave-kissed  marble  stair 
Beckoned  him  on  with  quivering  lip 
And  floating  hair, 

And  lived  some  moons  in  happy  trance, 

Then  learnt  his  death,  and  pined  away,  — 
Such  by  these  waters  of  romance 
'Twas  meet  to  lay. 

But  you  —  a  grave  for  knight  or  sage, 
Romantic,  solitary,  still, 

0  spent  ones  of  a  work-day  age  ! 

Befits  you  ill. 

So  sang  I ;  but  the  midnight  breeze, 

Down  to  the  brimmed,  moon-charmed  main, 
Comes  softly  through  the  olive-trees, 
And  checks  my  strain. 

1  think  of  her  whose  gentle  tongue 

All  plaint  in  her  own  cause  controlled  ; 
Of  thee  I  think,  my  brother  !  young 
In  heart,  high-souled  ; 

That  comely  face,  that  clustered  brow, 

That  cordial  hand,  that  bearing  free,  — 
I  see  them  still,  I  see  them  now, 

Shall  always  see  ! 

And  what  but  gentleness  untired, 

And  what  but  noble  feeling  warm, 
Wherever  shown,  howe'er  inspired, 
Is  grace,  is  charm? 

What  else  is  all  these  waters  are, 

What  else  is  steeped  in  lucid  sheen, 
What  else  is  bright,  what  else  is  fair, 
What  else  serene  ? 


II A  WORTH  CHURCHYARD.  407 

Mild  o'er  her  grave,  ye  mountains,  shine  ! 

Gently  by  his,  ye  waters,  glide  ! 
To  that  in  you  which  is  divine 
They  were  allied. 


HA  WORTH  CHURCHYARD. 

APRIL,  1855. 

Where,  under  Loughrigg,  the  stream 
Of  Rotha  sparkles  through  fields 
Vested  forever  with  green, 
Four  years  since,  in  the  house 
Of  a  gentle  spirit  now  dead, 
Wordsworth's  son-in-law,  friend,  — 
I  saw  the  meeting  of  two 
Gifted  women.23     The  one, 
Brilliant  with  recent  renown, 
Young,  unpractised,  had  told 
With  a  master's  accent  her  feigned 
Story  of  passionate  life  ; 
The  other,  maturer  in  fame, 
Earning,  she  too,  her  praise 
First  in  fiction,  had  since 
Widened  her  sweep,  and  surveyed 
History,  politics,  mind. 

The  two  held  converse  ;  they  wrote 
In  a  book  which  of  world-famous  souls 
Kept  the  memorial :  bard, 
Warrior,  statesman,  had  signed 
Their  names  :   chief  glory  of  all, 
Scott  had  bestowed  there  his  last 


408  II A  WORTH  CHURCHYARD. 

Breathings  of  song,  with  a  pen 
Tottering,  a  death-strieken  hand. 

Hope  at  that  meeting  smiled  fair. 
Years  in  number,  it  seemed, 
Lay  before  both,  and  a  fame 
Heightened,  and  multiplied  power. — 
Behold  !     The  elder,  to-day, 
Lies  expecting  from  death, 
In  mortal  weakness,  a  last 
Summons  !  the  younger  is  dead  ! 

First  to  the  living  we  pay 
Mournful  homage  :  the  Muse 
Gains  not  an  earth-deafened  ear. 

Hail  to  the  steadfast  soul, 
Which,  unflinching  and  keen, 
Wrought  to  erase  from  its  depth 
Mist  and  illusion  and  fear  ! 
Hail  to  the  spirit  which  dared 
Trust  its  own  thoughts,  before  yet 
Echoed  her  back  by  the  crowd  ! 
Hail  to  the  courage  which  gave 
Voice  to  its  creed,  ere  the  creed 
Won  consecration  from  time  ! 

Turn  we  next  to  the  dead.  — 
How  shall  we  honor  the  young, 
The  ardent,  the  gifted?  how  mourn? 
Console  we  cannot,  her  ear 
Is  deaf.     Far  northward  from  here, 
In  a  churchyard  high  'mid  the  moors 
Of  Yorkshire,  a  little  earth 
Stops  it  forever  to  praise. 


HA  WORTH  CHURCHYARD.  4O9 

Where  behind  Keighley  the  road 

Up  to  the  heart  of  the  moors 

Between  heath- clad  showery  hills 

Runs,  and  colliers'  carts 

Poach  the  deep  ways  coming  down, 

And  a  rough,  grimed  race  have  their  homes,  — 

There  on  its  slope  is  built 

The  moorland  town.     But  the  church 

Stands  on  the  crest  of  the  hill, 

Lonely  and  bleak  ;  at  its  side 

The  parsonage-house  and  the  graves. 

Strew  with  laurel  the  grave 
Of  the  early- dying  !   'Alas  ! 
Early  she  goes  on  the  path 
To  the  silent  country,  and  leaves 
Half  her  laurels  unwon, 
Dying  too  soon  ;  yet  green 
Laurels  she  had,  and  a  course 
Short,  but  redoubled  by  fame. 

And  not  friendless,  and  not 

Only  with  strangers  to  meet, 

Faces  ungreeting  and  cold, 

Thou,  O  mourned  one,  to-day 

Enterest  the  house  of  the  grave  ! 

Those  of  thy  blood,  whom  thou  lovedst, 

Have  preceded  thee,  —  young, 

Loving,  a  sisterly  band  ; 

Some  in  art,  some  in  gift 

Inferior  —  all  in  fame. 

They,  like  friends,  shall  receive 

This  comer,  greet  her  with  joy ; 

Welcome  the  sister,  the  friend  ; 

Hear  with  delight  of  thy  fame  ! 


410  IIAWOKTH  CHURCHYARD. 

Round  thee  they  lie  ;  the  grass 

Blows  from  their  graves  to  thy  own  ! 

She  whose  genius,  though  not 

Puissant  like  thine,  was  yet 

Sweet  and  graceful ;  and  she 

(How  shall  I  sing  her?)  whose  soul 

Knew  no  fellow  for  might, 

Passion,  vehemence,  grief, 

Daring,  since  Byron  died,  — 

The  world- famed  son  of  fire,  —  she  who  sank 

Baffled,  unknown,  self-consumed  ; 

Whose  too  bold  dying  song24 

Shook,  like  a  clarion-blast,  my  soul. 

Of  one,  too,  I  have  heard, 

A  brother  :  sleeps  he  here  ? 

Of  all  that  gifted  race 

Not  the  least  gifted  ;  young, 

Unhappy,  eloquent ;  the  child 

Of  many  hopes,  of  many  tears. 

O  boy,  if  here  thou  sleep'st,  sleep  well ! 

On  thee  too  did  the  Muse 

Bright  in  thy  cradle  smile  ; 

But  some  dark  shadow  came 

(I  know  not  what)  and  interposed. 

Sleep,  O  cluster  of  friends, 

Sleep  !  or  only  when  May, 

Brought  by  the  west-wind,  returns 

Back  to  your  native  heaths, 

And  the  plover  is  heard  on  the  moors, 

Yearly  awake  to  behold 

The  opening  summer,  the  sky, 

The  shining  moorland  ;  to  hear 

The  drowsy  bee,  as  of  old, 


RUGBY  CHAPEL.  4II 

Hum  o'er  the  thyme,  the  grouse 
Call  from  the  heather  in  bloom  ! 
Sleep,  or  only  for  this 
Break  your  united  repose  ! 


EPILOGUE. 


So  I  sang  ;  but  the  Muse, 
Shaking  her  head,  took  the  harp  — 
Stern  interrupted  my  strain, 
Angrily  smote  on  the  chords. 

April  showers 

Rush  o'er  the  Yorkshire  moors. 
Stormy,  through  driving  mist, 
Loom  the  blurred  hills  ;  the  rain 
Lashes  the  newly- made  grave. 

Unquiet  souls  ! 

—  In  the  dark  fermentation  of  earth, 

In  the  never-idle  workshop  of  nature^ 

In  the  eternal  movement, 

Ye  shall  find  yourselves  again  ! 


RUGBY  CHAPEL. 

NOVEMBER,    1857. 

Coldly,  sadly  descends 
The  autumn  evening.     The  field 
Strewn  with  its  dank  yellow  drifts 
Of  withered  leaves,  and  the  elms, 
Fade  into  dimness  apace, 
Silent ;  hardly  a  shout 


412  RUGBY   CHAPEL. 

From  a  few  boys  late  at  their  play  ! 

The  lights  come  out  in  the  street, 

In  the  schoolroom  windows  ;  but  cold, 

Solemn,  unlighted,  austere, 

Through  the  gathering  darkness,  arise 

The  chapel-walls,  in  whose  bound 

Thou,  my  father  !  art  laid. 

There  thou  dost  lie,  in  the  gloom 

Of  the  autumn  evening.     But  ah  ! 

That  word  gloom  to  my  mind 

Brings  thee  back  in  the  light 

Of  thy  radiant  vigor  again. 

In  the  gloom  of  November  we  passed 

Days  not  dark  at  thy  side ; 

Seasons  impaired  not  the  ray 

Of  thy  buoyant  cheerfulness  clear. 

Such  thou  wast !  and  I  stand 

In  the  autumn  evening,  and  think 

Of  bygone  autumns  with  thee. 

Fifteen  years  have  gone  round 
Since  thou  arosest  to  tread, 
In  the  summer-morning,  the  road 
Of  death,  at  a  call  unforeseen, 
Sudden.     For  fifteen  years, 
We  who  till  then  in  thy  shade 
Rested  as  under  the  boughs 
Of  a  mighty  oak,  have  endured 
Sunshine  and  rain  as  we  might, 
Bare,  unshaded,  alone, 
Lacking  the  shelter  of  thee. 

O  strong  soul,  by  what  shore 
Tarricst  thou  now?     For  that  force, 


RUGBY  CHAPEL.  413 

Surely,  has  not  been  left  vain  ! 
Somewhere,  surely,  afar, 
In  the  sounding  labor-house  vast 
Of  being,  is  practised  that  strength, 
Zealous,  beneficent,  firm  ! 

Yes,  in  some  far-shining  sphere, 

Conscious  or  not  of  the  past, 

Still  thou  performest  the  word 

Of  the  Spirit  in  whom  thou  dost  live, 

Prompt,  unwearied,  as  here. 

Still  thou  upraisest  with  zeal 

The  humble  good  from  the  ground, 

Sternly  repressest  the  bad  ; 

Still,  like  a  trumpet,  dost  rouse 

Those  who  with  half-open  eyes 

Tread  the  border-land  dim 

'Twixt  vice  and  virtue  ;  reviv'st, 

Succorest.     This  was  thy  work, 

This  was  thy  life  upon  earth. 

What  is  the  course  of  the  life 
Of  mortal  men  on  the  earth? 
Most  men  eddy  about 
Here  and  there,  eat  and  drink, 
Chatter  and  love  and  hate, 
Gather  and  squander,  are  raised 
Aloft,  are  hurled  in  the  dust, 
Striving  blindly,  achieving 
Nothing ;  and  then  they  die,  — 
Perish  ;  and  no  one  asks 
Who  or  what  they  have  been, 
More  than  he  asks  what  waves, 
In  the  moonlit  solitudes  mild 


414 


RUGBY  CllAPHL. 

Of  the  midmost  ocean,  have  swelled, 
Foamed  for  a  moment,  and  gone. 

And  there  are  some  whom  a  thirst 
Ardent,  unquenchable,  fires, 
Not  with  the  crowd  to  be  spent, 
Not  without  aim  to  go  round 
In  an  eddy  of  purposeless  dust, 
Effort  unmeaning  and  vain. 
Ah  yes  !  some  of  us  strive 
Not  without  action  to  die 
Fruitless,  but  something  to  snatch 
From  dull  oblivion,  nor  all 
Glut  the  devouring  grave. 
We,  we  have  chosen  our  path,  — 
Path  to  a  clear-purposed  goal, 
Path  of  advance  ;  but  it  leads 
A  long,  steep  journey,  through  sunk 
Gorges,  o'er  mountains  in  snow. 
Cheerful,  with  friends,  we  set  forth  : 
Then,  on  the  height,  comes  the  storm. 
Thunder  crashes  from  rock 
To  rock ;  the  cataracts  reply  ; 
Lightnings  dazzle  our  eyes  ; 
Roaring  torrents  have  breached 
The  track  ;  the  stream-bed  descends 
In  the  place  where  the  wayfarer  once 
Planted  his  footstep  ;  the  spray 
Boils  o'er  its  borders  ;  aloft, 
The  unseen  snow-beds  dislodge 
Their  hanging  ruin.     Alas  ! 
Havoc  is  made  in  our  train  ! 
Friends  who  set  forth  at  our  side 
Falter,  are  lost  in  the  storm. 


RUGBY  CHAPEL.  4*5 

We,  we  only  are  left  ! 
With  frowning  foreheads,  with  lips 
Sternly  compressed,  we  strain  on, 
On  ;  and  at  nightfall  at  last 
Come  to  the  end  of  our  way, 
To  the  lonely  inn  'mid  the  rocks ; 
Where  the  gaunt  and  taciturn  host 
Stands  on  the  threshold,  the  wind 
Shaking  his  thin  white  hairs, 
Holds  his  lantern  to  scan 
Our  storm-beat  figures,  and  asks,  — ■ 
Whom  in  our  party  we  bring  ? 
Whom  we  have  left  in  the  snow  ? 

Sadly  we  answer,  We  bring 
Only  ourselves  !  we  lost 
Sight  of  the  rest  in  the  storm. 
Hardly  ourselves  we  fought  through, 
Stripped,  without  friends,  as  we  are. 
Friends,  companions,  and  train, 
The  avalanche  swept  from  our  side. 

But  thou  wouldst  not  alone 
Be  saved,  my  father  !  alone 
Conquer  and  come  to  thy  goal, 
Leaving  the  rest  in  the  wild. 
We  were  weary,  and  we 
Fearful,  and  we  in  our  march 
Fain  to  drop  down  and  to  die. 
Still  thou  turnedst,  and  still 
Beckonedst  the  trembler,  and  still 
Gavest  the  weary  thy  hand. 
If,  in  the  paths  of  the  world, 
Stones  might  have  wounded  thy  feet, 


416  RUGBY  CHAPEL 

Toil  or  dejection  have  tried 
Thy  spirit,  of  that  we  saw 
Nothing  :  to  us  thou  wast  still 
Cheerful,  and  helpful,  and  firm  ! 
Therefore  to  thee  it  was  given 
Many  to  save  with  thyself; 
And,  at  the  end  of  thy  day, 
O  faithful  shepherd  !  to  come, 
Bringing  thy  sheep  in  thy  hand. 


And  through  thee  I  believe 

n  re*    ctr\r\  o 


In  the  noble  and  great  who  are  gone  j 
Pure  souls  honored  and  blest 
By  former  ages,  who  else  — 
Such,  so  soulless,  so  poor, 
Is  the  race  of  men  whom  I  see  — 
Seemed  but  a  dream  of  the  heart, 
Seemed  but  a  cry  of  desire. 
Yes  !  I  believe  that  there  lived 
Others  like  thee  in  the  past, 
Not  like  the  men  of  the  crowd 
Who  all  round  me  to-day 
Bluster  or  cringe,  and  make  life 
Hideous  and  arid  and  vile  ; 
But  souls  tempered  with  fire, 
Fervent,  heroic,  and  good, 
Helpers  and  friends  of  mankind. 

Servants  of  God  !  —  or  sons 
Shall  I  not  call  you  ?  because 
Not  as  servants  ye  knew 
Your  Father's  innermost  mind, 
His  who  unwillingly  sees 
One  of  his  little  ones  lost,  — 
Yours  is  the  praise,  if  mankind 


RUGBY  CHAPEL.  417 

Hath  not  as  yet  in  its  march 
Fainted  and  fallen  and  died. 

See  !     In  the  rocks  of  the  world 

Marches  the  host  of  mankind, 

A  feeble,  wavering  line. 

Where  are  they  tending?     A  God 

Marshalled  them,  gave  them  their  goal. 

Ah,  but  the  way  is  so  long  ! 

Years  they  have  been  in  the  wild  : 
Sore  thirst  plagues  them ;  the  rocks, 
Rising  all  round,  overawe  ; 
Factions  divide  them  ;  their  host 
Threatens  to  break,  to  dissolve. 
Ah  !  keep,  keep  them  combined  ! 
Else,  of  the  myriads  who  fill 
That  army,  not  one  shall  arrive  ; 
Sole  they  shall  stray  :  on  the  rocks 
Batter  forever  in  vain, 
Die  one  by  one  in  the  waste. 

Then,  in  such  hour  of  need 

Of  your  fainting,  dispirited  race, 

Ye  like  angels  appear, 

Radiant  with  ardor  divine. 

Beacons  of  hope,  ye  appear  ! 

Languor  is  not  in  your  heart, 

Weakness  is  not  in  your  word, 

Weariness  not  on  your  brow. 

Ye  alight  in  our  van  !  at  your  voice, 

Panic,  despair,  flee  away. 

Ye  move  through  the  ranks,  recall 

The  stragglers,  refresh  the  outworn, 

Praise,  re-inspire  the  brave. 


41 8  HEINE'S   GRAVE. 

Order,  courage,  return  ; 
Eyes  rekindling,  and  prayers, 
Follow  your  steps  as  ye  go. 
Ye  fill  up  the  gaps  in  our  files, 
Strengthen  the  wavering  line, 
Stablish,  contir  le  our  march, 
On,  to  the  bound  of  the  waste, 
On,  to  the  City  of  God. 


HEINE'S   GRAVE. 

"  Henri  Heine  "  —  'tis  here  ! 

The  black  tombstone,  the  name 

Carved  there  —  no  more  ;  and  the  smooth 

Swarded  alleys,  the  limes 

Touched  with  yellow  by  hot 

Summer,  but  under  them  still, 

In  September's  bright  afternoon, 

Shadow,  and  verdure,  and  cool. 

Trim  Montmartre  !  the  faint 

Murmur  of  Paris  outside  ; 

Crisp  everlasting-flowers, 

Yellow  and  black,  on  the  graves. 

Half  blind,  palsied,  in  pain, 
Hither  to  come,  from  the  streets' 
Uproar,  surely  not  loath 
Wast  thou,  Heine  !  to  lie 
Quiet,  to  ask  for  closed 
Shutters,  and  darkened  room, 
And  cool  drinks,  and  an  eased 
Posture,  and  opium,  no  more  ; 
Hither  to  come,  and  to  sleep 
Under  the  wings  of  Renown. 


HEINE'S   GRAVE.  419 

Ah  !  not  little,  when  pain 
Is  most  quelling,  and  man 
Easily  quelled,  and  the  fine 
Temper  of  genius  so  soon 
Thrills  at  each  smart,  is  the  praises 
Not  to  have  yielded  to  pain  ! 
No  small  boast,  for  a  weak 
Son  of  mankind,  to  the  earth 
Pinned  by  the  thunder,  to  rear 
His  bolt-scathed  front  to  the  stars ; 
And,  undaunted,  retort 
'Gainst  thick-crashing,  insane, 
Tyrannous  tempests  of  bale, 
Arrowy  lightnings  of  soul. 

Hark  !  through  the  alley  resounds 
Mocking  laughter  !     A  film 
Creeps  o'er  the  sunshine  ;  a  breeze 
Ruffles  the  warm  afternoon, 
Saddens  my  soul  with  its  chill. 
Gibing  of  spirits  in  scorn 
Shakes  every  leaf  of  the  grove, 
Mars  the  benignant  repose 
Of  this  amiable  home  of  the  dead. 

Bitter  spirits,  ye  claim 
Heine  ?     Alas,  he  is  yours  ! 
Only  a  moment  I  longed 
Here  in  the  quiet  to  snatch 
From  such  mates  the  outworn 
Poet,  and  steep  him  in  calm. 
Only  a  moment !  I  knew 
Whose  he  was  who  is  here 
Buried  :   I  knew  he  was  yours  ! 
Ah  !  I  knew  that  I  saw 


420  *       HEINE'S   GRAVE. 

Here  no  sepulchre  built 

In  the  laurelled  rock,  o'er  the  blue 

Naples  bay,  for  a  sweet 

Tender  Virgil ;  no  tomb 

On  Ravenna  sands,  in  the  shade 

Of  Ravenna  pines,  for  a  high 

Austere  Dante  ;  no  grave 

By  the  Avon  side,  in  the  bright 

Stratford  meadows,  for  thee, 

Shakspeare,  loveliest  of  souls, 

Peerless  in  radiance,  in  joy  ! 

What,  then,  so  harsh  and  malign, 
Heine  !  distils  from  thy  life? 
Poisons  the  peace  of  thy  grave  ? 

I  chide  with  thee  not,  that  thy  sharp 

Upbraidings  often  assailed 

England,  my  country  ;  for  we, 

Heavy  and  sad,  for  her  sons, 

Long  since,  deep  in  our  hearts, 

Echo  the  blame  of  her  foes. 

We  too  sigh  that  she  flags ; 

We  too  say  that  she  now  — 

Scarce  comprehending  the  voice 

Of  her  greatest,  golden-mouthed  sons 

Of  a  former  age  any  more  — 

Stupidly  travels  her  round 

Of  mechanic  business,  and  lets 

Slow  die  out  of  her  life 

Glory,  and  genius,  and  joy. 

So  thou  arraign'st  her,  her  foe ; 
So  we  arraign  her,  her  sons. 


HEINE'S   GRAVE.  42 1 

Yes,  we  arraign  her  !  but  she, 
The  weary  Titan,  with  deaf 
Ears,  and  labor-dimmed  eyes, 
Regarding  neither  to  right 
Nor  left,  goes  passively  by, 
Staggering  on  to  her  goal ; 
Bearing  on  shoulders  immense, 
Atlantean,  the  load, 
Well-nigh  not  to  be  borne, 
Of  the  too  vast  orb  of  her  fate. 

But  was  it  thou  —  I  think 

Surely  it  was  !  —  that  bard 

Unnamed,  who,  Goethe  said, 

Had  every  other  gift,  but  wanted  love  — 

Love,  without  which  the  tongue 

Even  of  angels  sounds  amiss  ? 

Charm  is  the  glory  which  makes 

Song,  of  the  poet  divine. 

Love  is  the  fountain  of  charm. 

How  without  charm  wilt  thou  draw, 

Poet !  the  world  to  thy  way  ? 

Not  by  the  lightnings  of  wit, 

Not  by  the  thunder  of  scorn. 

These  to  the  world  too  are  given ; 

Wit  it  possesses,  and  scorn  : 

Charm  is  the  poet's  alone. 

Hollow  and  dull  are  the  great, 

And  artists  envious,  and  the  mob  profane. 

We  know  all  this,  we  know  ! 

Cam'st  thou  from  heaven,  O  child 

Of  light  !  but  this  to  declare  ? 

Alas  !  to  help  us  forget 


422  HEINE'S   GRAVE. 

Such  barren  knowledge  a  while, 
God  gave  die  poet  his  song. 

Therefore  a  secret  unrest 
Tortured  thee,  brilliant  and  bold  : 
Therefore  triumph  itself 
Tasted  amiss  to  thy  soul. 
Therefore,  with  blood  of  thy  foes, 
Trickled  in  silence  thine  own. 
Therefore  the  victor's  heart 
Broke  on  the  field  of  his  fame. 

Ah  !  as  of  old,  from  the  pomp 
Of  Italian  Milan,  the  fair 
Flower  of  marble  of  white 
Southern  palaces,  —  steps 
Bordered  by  statues,  and  walks 
Terraced,  and  orange  bowers 
Heavy  with  fragrance,  —  the  blond 
German  Kaiser  full  oft 
Longed  himself  back  to  the  fields,- 
Rivers,  and  high-roofed  towns 
Of  his  native  Germany  ;  so, 
So,  how  often  !  from  hot 
Paris  drawing-rooms,  and  lamps 
Blazing,  and  brilliant  crowds, 
Starred  and  jewelled,  of  men 
Famous,  of  women  the  queens 
Of  dazzling  converse  ;  from  fumes 
Of  praise,  hot,  heady  fumes,  to  the  poor  brain 
That  mount,  that  madden,  —  how  oft 
Heine's  spirit  outworn 
Longed  itself  out  of  the  din, 
Back  to  the  tranquil,  the  cool 
Far  German  home  of  his  youth  ! 


HEINE'S    GRAVE.  423 

See  !  in  the  May  afternoon, 

O'er  the  fresh  short  turf  of  the  Hartz, 

A  youth,  with  the  foot  of  youth, 

Heine  !  thou  climbest  again  : 

Up  through  the  tall  dark  firs 

Warming  their  heads  in  the  sun, 

Checkering  the  grass  with  their  shade ; 

Up  by  the  stream,  with  its  huge 

Moss-hung  bowlders,  and  thin 

Musical  water  half-hid  ; 

Up  o'er  the  rock-strewn  slope, 

With  the  sinking  sun,  and  the  air 

Chill,  and  the  shadows  now 

Long  on  the  gray  hillside,  — 

To  the  stone-roofed  hut  at  the  top  ! 

Or,  yet  later,  in  watch 

On  the  roof  of  the  Brocken- tower 

Thou  standest,  gazing  !  —  to  see 

The  broad  red  sun  over  field, 

Forest,  and  city,  and  spire, 

And  mist-tracked  steam  of  the  wide, 

Wide  German  land,  going  down 

In  a  bank  of  vapors,  —  again 

Standest,  at  nightfall,  alone  ! 

Or,  next  morning,  with  limbs 
Rested  by  slumber,  and  heart 
Freshened  and  light  with  the  May, 
O'er  the  gracious  spurs  coming  down 
Of  the  Lower  Hartz,  among  oaks 
And  beechen  coverts,  and  copse 
Of  hazels  green,  in  whose  depth 
Use,  the  fairy  transformed, 
In  a  thousand  water-breaks  light 


424  HEINE'S   GRAVE. 

Pours  her  petulant  youth  ; 

Climbing  the  rock  which  juts 

O'er  the  valley,  —  the  dizzily  perched 

Rock,  —  to  its  iron  cross 

Once  more  thou  cling'st ;  to  the  cross 

Clingest !  with  smiles,  with  a  sigh  ! 

Goethe  too  had  been  there.25 
In  the  long-past  winter  he  came 
To  the  frozen  Hartz,  with  his  soul 
Passionate,  eager ;  his  youth 
All  in  ferment.     But  he, 
Destined  to  work  and  to  live, 
Left  it,  and  thou,  alas  ! 
Only  to  laugh  and  to  die. 

But  something  prompts  me  :  Not  thus 

Take  leave  of  Heine  !  not  thus 

Speak  the  last  word  at  his  grave  ! 

Not  in  pity,  and  not 

With  half  censure  :  with  awe 

Hail,  as  it  passes  from  earth 

Scattering  lightnings,  that  soul ! 

The  Spirit  of  the  world, 

Beholding  the  absurdity  of  men,  — ' 

Their  vaunts,  their  feats,  —  let  a  sardonic  smile, 

For  one  short  moment,  wander  o'er  his  lips. 

That  smile  was  Heine  !     For  its  earthly  hour 

The  strange  guest  sparkled  ;  now  'tis  passed  away. 

That  was  Heine  !  and  we, 
Myriads  who  live,  who  have  lived, 
What  are  we  all,  but  a  mood, 
A  single  mood,  of  the  life 


THE   GRANDE    CHARTREUSE.  425 

Of  the  Spirit  in  whom  we  exist, 
Who  alone  is  all  things  in  one  ? 

Spirit,  who  fillest  us  all ! 
Spirit,  who  utterest  in  each 
New-coming  son  of  mankind 
Such  of  thy  thoughts  as  thou  wilt ! 
O  thou,  one  of  whose  moods, 
Bitter  and  strange,  was  the  life 
Of  Heine,  —  his  strange,  alas  ! 
His  bitter  life,  —  may  a  life 
Other  and  milder  be  mine  ! 
May'st  thou  a  mood  more  serene, 
Happier,  have  uttered  in  mine  ! 
May'st  thou  the  rapture  of  peace 
Deep  have  imbreathed  at  its  core ; 
Made  it  a  ray  of  thy  thought, 
Made  it  a  beat  of  thy  joy  ! 


STANZAS  FROM 
THE    GRANDE    CHARTREUSE. 

Through  Alpine  meadows  soft-suffused 
With  rain,  where  thick  the  crocus  blows, 
Past  the  dark  forges  long  disused, 
The  mule-track  from  Saint  Laurent  goes. 
The  bridge  is  crossed,  and  slow  we  ride, 
Through  forest,  up  the  mountain  side. 

The  autumnal  evening  darkens  round, 
The  wind  is  up,  and  drives  the  rain ; 
While,  hark  !  far  down,  with  strangled  sound 
Doth  the  Dead  Guier's  stream  complain, 


4^6  STANZAS  FROM 

Where  that  wet  smoke,  among  the  woods, 
Over  his  boiling  caldron  broods. 

Swift  rush  the  spectral  vapors  white 
Past  limestone  scars  with  ragged  pines, 
Showing  —  then  blotting  from  our  sight  !  — 
Halt  —  through  the  cloud-drift  something  shines  ! 
High  in  the  valley,  wet  and  drear, 
The  huts  of  Courrerie  appear. 

Strike  leftward 7  cries  our  guide  ;  and  higher 

Mounts  up  the  stony  forest-way. 

At  last  the  encircling  trees  retire  ; 

Look  !  through  the  showery  twilight  gray, 

What  pointed  roofs  are  these  advance  ? 

A  palace  of  the  kings  of  France? 

Approach,  for  what  we  seek  is  here  ! 

Alight,  and  sparely  sup,  and  wait 

For  rest  in  this  outbuilding  near  ; 

Then  cross  the  sward,  and  reach  that  gate ; 

Knock  ;  pass  the  wicket.     Thou  art  come 

To  the  Carthusians'  world-famed  home. 

The  silent  courts,  where  night  and  day 

Into  their  stone-carved  basins  cold 

The  splashing  icy  fountains  play, 

The  humid  corridors  behold, 

Where,  ghost-like  in  the  deepening  night, 

Cowled  forms  brush  by  in  gleaming  white  ! 

The  chapel,  where  no  organ's  peal 
Invests  the  stern  and  naked  prayer  ! 
With  penitential  cries  they  kneel 
And  wrestle  ;  rising  then,  with  bare 
And  white  uplifted  faces  stand, 
Passing  the  Host  from  hand  to  hand  ; 


THE    GRANDE    CHARTREUSE.  427 

Each  takes,  and  then  his  visage  wan 
Is  buried  in  his  cowl  once  more. 
The  cells  !  —  the  suffering  Son  of  man 
Upon  the  wall ;  the  knee-worn  floor  ; 
And  where  they  sleep,  that  wooden  bed, 
Which  shall  their  coffin  be  when  dead  ! 

The  library,  where  tract  and  tome 

Not  to  feed  priestly  pride  are  there, 

To  hymn  the  conquering  march  of  Rome, 

Nor  yet  to  amuse,  as  ours  are  : 

They  paint  of  souls  the  inner  strife, 

Their  drops  of  blood,  their  death  in  life. 

The  garden,  overgrown  —  yet  mild, 
See,  fragrant  herbs  are  flowering  there  : 
Strong  children  of  the  Alpine  wild 
Whose  culture  is  the  brethren's  care ; 
Of  human  tasks  their  only  one, 
And  cheerful  works  beneath  the  sun. 

Those  halls,  too,  destined  to  contain 
Each  its  own  pilgrim-host  of  old, 
From  England,  Germany,  or  Spain,  — 
All  are  before  me  !  I  behold 
The  house,  the  brotherhood  austere. 
And  what  am  I,  that  I  am  here  ? 

For  rigorous  teachers  seized  my  youth, 
And  purged  its  faith,  and  trimmed  its  fire, 
Showed  me  the  high,  white  star  of  Truth, 
There  bade  me  gaze,  and  there  aspire. 
Even  now  their  whispers  pierce  the  gloom  : 
What  dost  thou  in  this  living  tomb  ? 

Forgive  me,  masters  of  the  mind  ! 
At  whose  behest  I  long  ago 


4^8  STANZAS   /-ROM 

So  much  unlearned,  so  much  resigned : 
I  come  not  here  to  be  your  foe  ! 
I  seek  these  anchorites,  not  in  ruth, 
To  curse  and  to  deny  your  truth  ; 

Not  as  their  friend,  or  child,  I  speak  ! 
But  as,  on  some  far  northern  strand. 
Thinking  of  his  own  gods,  a  Greek 
In  pity  and  mournful  awe  might  stand 
Before  some  fallen  Runic  stone ; 
For  both  were  faiths,  and  both  are  gone. 

Wandering  between  two  worlds,  one  dead, 
The  other  powerless  to  be  born, 
With  nowhere  yet  to  rest  my  head, 
Like  these,  on  earth  I  wait  forlorn. 
Their  faith,  my  tears,  the  world  deride  : 
I  come  to  shed  them  at  their  side. 

Oh,  hide  me  in  your  gloom  profound, 

Ye  solemn  seats  of  holy  pain  ! 

Take  me,  cowled  forms,  and  fence  me  round, 

Till  I  possess  my  soul  again  ; 

Till  free  my  thoughts  before  me  roll, 

Not  chafed  by  hourly  false  control ! 

For  the  world  cries,  your  faith  is  now 

But  a  dead  time's  exploded  dream  ; 

My  melancholy,  sciolists  say, 

Is  a  passed  mode,  an  outworn  theme.  — 

As  if  the  world  had  ever  had 

A  faith,  or  sciolists  been  sad  ! 

Ah  !  if  it  be  passed,  take  away, 
At  least,  the  restlessness,  the  pain  ! 
Be  man  henceforth  no  more  a  prey 
To  these  out-dated  stings  again  ! 


THE    GRANDE    CHARTREUSE.  429 

The  nobleness  of  grief  is  gone  : 
Ah,  leave  us  not  the  fret  alone  ! 

But,  —  if  you  cannot  give  us  ease,  — 
Last  of  the  race  of  them  who  grieve, 
Here  leave  us  to  die  out  with  these 
Last  of  the  people  who  believe  ! 
Silent,  while  years  engrave  the  brow ; 
Silent  —  the  best  are  silent  now. 

Achilles  ponders  in  his  tent, 
The  kings  of  modern  thought  are  dumb ; 
Silent  they  are,  though  not  content, 
And  wait  to  see  the  future  come. 
They  have  the  grief  men  had  of  yore, 
But  they  contend  and  cry  no  more. 

Our  fathers  watered  with  their  tears 
This  sea  of  time  whereon  we  sail ; 
Their  voices  were  in  all  men's  ears 
Who  passed  within  their  puissant  hail. 
Still  the  same  ocean  round  us  raves, 
But  we  stand  mute,  and  watch  the  waves. 

For  what  availed  it,  all  the  noise 

And  outcry  of  the  former  men  ? 

Say,  have  their  sons  achieved  more  joys  ? 

Say,  is  life  lighter  now  than  then  ? 

The  sufferers  died,  they  left  their  pain  ; 

The  pangs  which  tortured  them  remain. 

What  helps  it  now,  that  Byron  bore, 

With  haughty  scorn  which  mocked  the  smart, 

Through  Europe  to  the  /Etolian  shore 

The  pageant  of  his  bleeding  heart  ? 

That  thousands  counted  every  groan, 

And  Europe  made  his  woe  her  own? 


430  STANZAS  FROM 

What  boots  it,  Shelley  !  that  the  breeze 

Carried  thy  lovely  wail  away, 

Musical  through  Italian  trees 

Which  fringe  thy  soft  blue  Spezzian  bay? 

Inheritors  of  thy  distress, 

Have  restless  hearts  one  throb  the  less? 

Or  are  we  easier,  to  have  read, 
O  Obermann  !  the  sad,  stern  page, 
Which  tells  us  how  thou  hidd'st  thy  head 
From  the  fierce  tempest  of  thine  age 
In  the  lone  brakes  of  Fontainebleau, 
Or  chalets  near  the  Alpine  snow  ? 

Ye  slumber  in  your  silent  grave  !  — 
The  world,  which  for  an  idle  day 
Grace  to  your  mood  of  sadness  gave, 
Long  since  hath  flung  her  weeds  away. 
The  eternal  trifler  breaks  your  spell  ; 
But  we  —  we  learnt  your  lore  too  well  ! 

Years  hence,  perhaps,  may  dawn  an  age, 

More  fortunate,  alas  !  than  we, 

Which  without  hardness  will  be  sage, 

And  gay  without  frivolity. 

Sons  of  the  world,  oh  !  speed  those  years  ; 

But,  while  we  wait,  allow  our  tears  ! 

Allow  them  !     We  admire  with  awe 
The  exulting  thunder  of  your  race  ; 
You  give  the  universe  your  law, 
You  triumph  over  time  and  space  : 
Your  pride  of  life,  your  tireless  powers, 
We  praise  them,  but  they  are  not  ours. 

We  are  like  children  reared  in  shade 
Beneath  some  old-world  abbey  wall, 


THE    GRANDE    CHARTREUSE.  43 1 

Forgotten  in  a  forest-glade, 

And  secret  from  the  eyes  of  all. 

Deep,  deep  the  greenwood  round  them  waves, 

Their  abbey,  and  its  close  of  graves  ! 

But,  where  the  road  runs  near  the  stream, 
Oft  through  the  trees  they  catch  a  glance 
Of  passing  troops  in  the  sun's  beam,  — 
Pennon,  and  plume,  and  flashing  lance  ; 
Forth  to  the  world  those  soldiers  fare, 
To  life,  to  cities,  and  to  war. 

And  through  the  woods,  another  way, 
Faint  bugle-notes  from  far  are  borne, 
Where  hunters  gather,  staghounds  bay, 
Round  some  old  forest-lodge  at  morn. 
Gay  dames  are  there,  in  sylvan  green ; 
Laughter  and  cries  —  those  notes  between  ! 

The  banners  flashing  through  the  trees 

Make  their  blood  dance,  and  chain  their  eyes ; 

That  bugle-music  on  the  breeze 

Arrests  them  with  a  charmed  surprise. 

Banner  by  turns  and  bugle  woo  : 

Ye  shy  recluses,  follow  too  ! 

O  children,  what  do  ye  reply? 
"  Action  and  pleasure,  will  ye  roam 
Through  these  secluded  dells  to  cry 
And  call  us?  but  too  late  ye  come  ! 
Too  late  for  us  your  call  ye  blow, 
Whose  bent  was  taken  long  ago. 

"  Long  since  we  pace  this  shadowed  nave  ; 
We  watch  those  yellow  tapers  shine, 
Emblems  of  hope  over  the  grave, 
In  the  high  altar's  depth  divine. 


432  STANZAS  IN  MEMORY  01 

The  organ  carries  to  our  car 
Its  accents  of  another  sphere. 

"  Fenced  early  in  this  cloistral  round 

Of  revery,  of  shade,  of  prayer, 

How  should  we  grow  in  other  ground  ? 

How  can  we  flower  in  foreign  air? 

—  Pass,  banners,  pass,  and  bugles,  cease  ; 

And  leave  our  desert  to  its  peace  ! " 


STANZAS 
IN  MEMORY  OF   THE   AUTHOR   OF   OBERM  \NN.2i 

November,  1849. 

In  front  the  awful  Alpine  track 
Crawls  up  its  rocky  stair  ; 
The  autumn  storm-winds  drive  the  rack, 
Close  o'er  it,  in  the  air. 

Behind  are  the  abandoned  baths 2? 
Mute  in  their  meadows  lone  ; 
The  leaves  are  on  the  valley-paths, 
The  mists  are  on  the  Rhone,  — 

The  white  mists  rolling  like  a  sea ; 
I  hear  the  torrents  roar. 
—  Yes,  Obermann,  all  speaks  of  thee ; 
I  feel  thee  near  once  more. 

I  turn  thy  leaves  ;  I  feel  their  breath 
Once  more  upon  me  roll  ; 
That  air  of  languor,  cold,  and  death, 
Which  brooded  o'er  thy  soul. 


THE   AUTHOR   OF  OBERMANN.  433 

Fly  hence,  poor  wretch,  whoe'er  thou  art, 
Condemned  to  cast  about, 
All  shipwreck  in  thy  own  weak  heart, 
For  comfort  from  without ! 

A  fever  in  these  pages  burns 
Beneath  the  calm  they  feign  j 
A  wounded  human  spirit  turns, 
Here,  on  its  bed  of  pain. 

Yes,  though  the  virgin  mountain  air 
Fresh  through  these  pages  blows  ; 
Though  to  these  leaves  the  glaciers  spare 
The  soul  of  their  mute  snows ; 

Though  here  a  mountain  murmur  swells 
Of  many  a  dark-boughed  pine  ; 
Though,  as  you  read,  you  hear  the  bells 
Of  the  high-pasturing  kine,  — 

Yet  through  the  hum  of  torrent  lone, 
And  brooding  mountain  bee, 
There  sobs  I  know  not  what  ground- tone 
Of  human  agony. 

Is  it  for  this,  because  the  sound 
Is  fraught  too  deep  with  pain, 
That,  Obermann  !  the  world  around 
So  little  loves  thy  strain  ? 

Some  secrets  may  the  poet  tell, 
For  the  world  loves  new  ways  : 
To  tell  too  deep  ones  is  not  well, — 
It  knows  not  what  he  says. 

Yet,  of  the  spirits  who  have  reigned 
In  this  our  troubled  day, 


434  STANZAS  IN  MEMORY  OF 

I  know  but  two  who  have  attained, 
Save  thee,  to  see  their  way. 

By  England's  lakes,  in  gray  old  age, 
His  quiet  home  one  keeps  ; 
And  one,  the  strong  much-toiling  sages 
In  German  Weimar  sleeps. 

But  Wordsworth's  eyes  avert  their  ken 
From  half  of  human  fate  ; 
And  Goethe's  course  few  sons  of  men 
May  think  to  emulate. 

For  he  pursued  a  lonely  road, 
His  eyes  on  Nature's  plan  ; 
Neither  made  man  too  much  a  god, 
Nor  God  too  much  a  man. 

Strong  was  he,  with  a  spirit  free 
From  mists,  and  sane  and  clear ; 
Clearer,  how  much  !  than  ours  —  yet  we 
Have  a  worse  course  to  steer. 

For,  though  his  manhood  bore  the  blast 
Of  a  tremendous  time, 
Yet  in  a  tranquil  world  was  passed 
His  tenderer  youthful  prime. 

But  we,  brought  forth  and  reared  in  hours 
Of  change,  alarm,  surprise,  — 
What  shelter  to  grow  ripe  is  ours  ? 
What  leisure  to  grow  wise  ? 

Like  children  bathing  on  the  shore, 
Buried  a  wave  beneath, 
The  second  wave  succeeds  before 
We  have  had  time  to  breathe. 


THE   AUTHOR    OF   ODER  MANN.  435 

Too  fast  we  live,  too  much  are  tried, 
Too  harassed,  to  attain 
Wordsworth's  sweet  calm,  or  Goethe's  wide 
And  luminous  view  to  gain. 

And  then  we  turn,  thou  sadder  sage, 
To  thee  !  we  feel  thy  spell ! 
—  The  hopeless  tangle  of  our  age, 
Thou  too  hast  scanned  it  well. 

Immovable  thou  sittest,  still 
As  death,  composed  to  bear  ; 
Thy  head  is  clear,  thy  feeling  chill., 
And  icy  thy  despair. 

Yes,  as  the  son  of  Thetis  said, 
I  hear  thee  saying  now  : 
Greater  by  far  than  thou  are  dead  ; 
Strive  not !  die  also  thou  ! 

Ah  !  two  desires  toss  about 

The  poet's  feverish  blood  ; 

One  drives  him  to  the  world  without, 

And  one  to  solitude. 

The  glow,  he  cries,  the  thrill  of  life, 
Where,  where  do  these  abound '  ? 
Not  in  the  world,  not  in  the  strife 
Of  men,  shall  they  be  found. 

He  who  hath  watched,  not  shared,  the  strife} 
Knows  how  the  day  hath  gone  : 
He  only  lives  with  the  world's  life, 
Who  hath  renounced  his  own. 

To  thee  we  come,  then  !     Clouds  are  rolled 
Where  thou,  O  seer  !  art  set ; 


436  STANZAS   IN  MEMORY  OF 

Thy  realm  of  thought  is  drear  and  cold  — 
The  world  is  colder  yet. 

And  thou  hast  pleasures,  too,  to  share 
With  those  who  come  to  thee,  — 
Balms  floating  on  thy  mountain  air, 
And  healing  sights  to  see. 

How  often,  where  the  slopes  are  green 
On  Jaman,  hast  thou  sate 
By  some  high  chalet-door,  and  seen 
The  summer  day  grow  late  ; 

And  darkness  steal  o'er  the  wet  grass 
With  the  pale  crocus  starred, 
And  reach  that  glimmering  sheet  of  glass 
Beneath  the  piny  sward,  — 

Lake  Leman's  waters,  far  below  ; 
And  watched  the  rosy  light 
Fade  from  the  distant  peaks  of  snow ; 
And  on  the  air  of  night 

Heard  accents  of  the  eternal  tongue 
Through  the  pine  branches  play, — 
Listened,  and  felt  thyself  grow  young  ! 
Listened,  and  wept  —     Away  ! 

Away  the  dreams  that  but  deceive  ! 
And  thou,  sad  guide,  adieu  ! 
I  go,  fate  drives  me ;  but  I  leave 
Half  of  my  life  with  you. 

We,  in  some  unknown  Power's  employ, 
Move  on  a  rigorous  line  ; 
Can  neither,  when  we  will,  enjoy, 
Nor,  when  we  will,  resign. 


THE  AUTHOR   OE  OBERMANN.  All 

I  in  the  world  must  live  ;  but  thou, 
Thou  melancholy  shade  ! 
Wilt  not,  if  thou  canst  see  me  now, 
Condemn  me,  nor  upbraid. 

For  thou  art  gone  away  from  earth, 
And  place  with  those  dost  claim, 
The  children  of  the  second  birth, 
Whom  the  world  could  not  tame  ; 

And  with  that  small  transfigured  band. 
Whom  many  a  different  way 
Conducted  to  their  common  land, 
Thou  learn'st  to  think  as  they 

Christian  and  Pagan,  king  and  slave, 
Soldier  and  anchorite, 
Distinctions  we  esteem  so  grave, 
Are  nothing  in  their  sight. 

They  do  not  ask,  who  pined  unseen, 
Who  was  on  action  hurled, 
Whose  one  bond  is,  that  all  have  been 
Unspotted  by  the  world. 

There  without  anger  thou  wilt  see 
Him  who  obeys  thy  spell 
No  more,  so  he  but  rest,  like  thee, 
Unsoiled  ;  and  so,  farewell ! 

Farewell  !     Whether  thou  now  liest  near 
That  much-loved  inland  sea, 
The  ripples  of  whose  blue  waves  cheer 
Vevey  and  Meillerie  ; 

And  in  that  gracious  region  bland, 
Where  with  clear-rustling  wave 


43§  OBERMANN  ONCE  MORE. 

The  scented  pines  of  Switzerland 
Stand  dark  round  thy  green  grave, — 

Between  the  dusty  vineyard-walls 
Issuing  on  that  green  place, 
The  early  peasant  still  recalls 
The  pensive  stranger's  face, — 

And  stoops  to  clear  thy  moss-grown  date 

Ere  he  plods  on  again  ; 

Or  whether,  by  maligner  fate, 

Among  the  swarms  of  men, — 

Where  between  granite  terraces 
The  blue  Seine  rolls  her  wave, 
The  Capital  of  Pleasure  sees 
Thy  hardly-heard-of  grave,  — 

Farewell  !     Under  the  sky  we  part, 
In  this  stern  Alpine  dell. 
O  unstrung  will  !  O  broken  heart ! 
A  last,  a  last  farewell  ! 


OBERMANN  ONCE  MORE. 

(COMPOSED    MANY   YEARS   AFrER   THE   PRECEDING.) 

Savez-vous  qiulquc  bien  qui  console  du  regret  d'un  monde? 

OBERMANN. 

Geion?     Ah  !  twenty  years,  it  cuts28 
All  meaning  from  a  name  ! 
White  houses  prank  where  once  were  huts ; 
Glion,  but  not  the  same  ! 

And  yet  I  know  not !     All  unchanged 
The  turf,  the  pines,  the  sky  ! 


OBERMANN  ONCE  MORE.  439 

The  hills  in  their  old  order  ranged ; 
The  lake^  with  Chillon  by ; 

And  'neath  those  chestnut-trees,  where  stiff 

And  stony  mounts  the  way, 

The  crackling  husk-heaps  burn,  as  if 

I  left  them  yesterday. 

Across  the  valley,  on  that  slope, 
The  huts  of  Avant  shine  ; 
Its  pines,  under  their  branches,  ope 
Ways  for  the  pasturing  kine. 

Full-foaming  milk-pails,  Alpine  fare, 
Sweet  heaps  of  fresh-cut  grass, 
Invite  to  rest  the  traveller  there 
Before  he  climb  the  pass,  — 

The  gentian-flowered  pass,  its  crown  zc> 
With  yellow  spires  aflame  ; 
Whence  drops  the  path  to  Alliere  down, 
And  walls  where  Byron  came  ;  3° 

By  their  green  river,  who  doth  change 
His  birth-name  just  below, 
Orchard  and  croft  and  full-stored  grange 
Nursed  by  his  pastoral  flow. 

But  stop  !  to  fetch  back  thoughts  that  stray 
Beyond  this  gracious  bound, 
The  cone  of  Jaman,  pale  and  gray, 
See,  in  the  blue  profound  ! 

Ah,  Jaman  !  delicately  tall 
Above  his  sun-warmed  firs,  — 
What  thoughts  to  me  his  rocks  recall, 
What  memories  he  stirs  ! 


44°  OBERMANN  ONCE  MORE. 

And  who  but  thou  must  be,  in  truth, 
Obermann  !  with  me  here  ? 
Thou  master  of  my  wandering  youth, 
But  left  this  many  a  year  ! 

Yes,  I  forget  the  world's  work  wrought, 
Its  warfare  waged  with  pain  : 
An  eremite  with  thee,  in  thought 
Once  more  I  slip  my  chain,  — 

And  to  thy  mountain  chalet  come, 
And  lie  beside  its  door, 
And  hear  the  wild  bee's  Alpine  hum, 
And  thy  sad,  tranquil  lore. 

Again  I  feel  the  words  inspire 
Their  mournful  calm  ;  serene, 
Yet  tinged  with  infinite  desire 
For  all  that  might  have  been,  — 

The  harmony  from  which  man  swerved 
Made  his  life's  rule  once  more ; 
The  universal  order  served, 
Earth  happier  than  before. 

—  While  thus  I  mused,  night  gently  ran 
Down  over  hill  and  wood. 
Then,  still  and  sudden,  Obermann 
On  the  grass  near  me  stood. 

Those  pensive  features  well  I  knew,  — 
On  my  mind,  years  before, 
Imaged  so  oft,  imaged  so  true  ! 

—  A  shepherd's  garb  he  wore  ; 

A  mountain  flower  was  in  his  hand, 

A  book  was  in  his  breast 


- 


QBE K MANN  ONCE  MORE.  441 

Bent  on  my  face,  with  gaze  which  scanned 
My  soul,  his  eyes  did  rest. 

"And  is  it  thou,"  he  cried,  "so  long 
Held  by  the  world  which  we 
Loved  not,  who  turnest  from  the  throng 
Back  to  thy  youth  and  me  ? 

"  And  from  thy  world,  with  heart  opprest, 
Choosest  thou  now  to  turn  ? 
Ah  me  !  we  anchorites  read  things  best, 
Clearest  their  course  discern  ! 

"  Thou  fled'st  me  when  the  ungenial  earth, 
Man's  work-place,  lay  in  gloom  : 
Return'st  thou  in  her  hour  of  birth, 
Of  hopes  and  hearts  in  bloom  ? 

"  Perceiv'st  thou  not  the  change  of  day? 
Ah  !     Carry  back  thy  ken, 
What,  some  two  thousand  years  !     Survey 
The  world  as  it  was  then. 

"  Like  ours  it  looked  in  outward  air. 
Its  head  was  clear  and  true, 
Sumptuous  its  clothing,  rich  its  fare, 
No  pause  its  action  knew ; 

"  Stout  was  its  arm,  each  thew  and  bone 
Seemed  puissant  and  alive  : 
But,  ah  !  its  heart,  its  heart  was  stone, 
And  so  it  could  not  thrive  ! 

"  On  that  hard  Pagan  world,  disgust 
And  secret  loathing  fell ; 
Deep  weariness  and  sated  lust 
.Hade  human  life  a  hell. 


442  OBERMANN  ONCE  MORE. 

"  In  his  cool  hall,  with  haggard  eyes, 
The  Roman  noble  lay ; 
He  drove  abroad,  in  furious  guise, 
Along  the  Appian  Way. 

"  He  made  a  feast,  drank  fierce  and  fast, 
And  crowned  his  hair  with  flowers ; 
No  easier  nor  no  quicker  passed 
The  impracticable  hours. 

"  The  brooding  East  with  awe  beheld 
Her  impious  younger  world. 
The  Roman  tempest  swelled  and  swelled, 
And  on  her  head  was  hurled. 

"  The  East  bowed  low  before  the  blast 
In  patient,  deep  disdain  ; 
She  let  the  legions  thunder  past, 
And  plunged  in  thought  again. 

"  So  well  she  mused,  a  morning  broke 
Across  her  spirit  gray  ; 
A  conquering,  new-born  joy  awoke, 
And  filled  her  life  with  day. 

"  '  Poor  world  ! '  she  cried,  '  so  deep  accurst, 
That  runn'st  from  pole  to  pole 
To  seek  a  draught  to  slake  thy  thirst.  — 
Go,  seek  it  in  thy  soul  ! ' 

"  She  heard  it,  the  victorious  West, 
In  crown  and  sword  arrayed  ; 
She  felt  the  void  which  mined  her  breast, 
She  shivered  and  obeyed. 

"  She  vailed  her  eagles,  snapped  her  sword, 
And  laid  her  sceptre  down ; 


OBERMANN  ONCE  MORE.  443 

Her  stately  purple  she  abhorred, 
And  her  imperial  crown. 

"  She  broke  her  flutes,  she  stopped  her  sports, 
Her  artists  could  not  please. 
She  tore  her  books,  she  shut  her  courts, 
She  fled  her  palaces. 

"  Lust  of  the  eye,  and  pride  of  life, 
She  left  it  all  behind, 
And  hurried,  torn  with  inward  strife, 
The  wilderness  to  find. 

"  Tears  washed  the  trouble  from  her  face  ; 
She  changed  into  a  child  ; 
'Mid  weeds  and  wrecks  she  stood,  —  a  place 
Of  ruin,  —  but  she  smiled  ! 

"  Oh,  had  I  lived  in  that  great  day, 
How  had  its  glory  new 
Filled  earth  and  heaven,  and  caught  away 
My  ravished  spirit  too  ! 

"  No  thoughts  that  to  the  world  belong 
Had  stood  against  the  wave 
Of  love  which  set  so  deep  and  strong 
From  Christ's  then  open  grave. 

"  No  cloister-floor  of  humid  stone 
Had  been  too  cold  for  me  ; 
For  me  no  Eastern  desert  lone 
Had  been  too  far  to  flee. 

"  No  lonely  life  had  passed  too  slow, 
When  I  could  hourly  scan 
Upon  his  cross,  with  head  sunk  low, 
That  nailed,  thorn-crowned  Man  ^ 


444  OBERMANN  OXCE  MORE. 

"  Could  see  the  Mother  with  the  Child 
Whose  tender  winning  arts 
Have  to  his  little  arms  beguiled 
So  many  wounded  hearts  ! 

"  And  centuries  came,  and  ran  their  course ; 
And,  unspent  all  that  time, 
Still,  still  went  forth  that  Child's  dear  force, 
And  still  was  at  its  prime. 

"  Ay,  ages  long  endured  his  span 

Of  life,  — 'tis  true  received,  — 

That  gracious  Child,  that  thorn-crowned  Man  ! 

—  He  lived  while  we  believed. 

"  While  we  believed,  on  earth  he  went, 
And  open  stood  his  grave  ; 
Men  called  from  chamber,  church,  and  tent, 
And  Christ  was  by  to  save. 

"  Now  he  is  dead  !     Far  hence  he  lies 
In  the  lorn  Syrian  town  ; 
And  on  his  grave,  with  shining  eyes, 
The  Syrian  stars  look  down. 

"  In  vain  men  still,  with  hoping  new, 
Regard  his  death-place  dumb, 
And  say  the  stone  is  not  yet  to, 
And  wait  for  words  to  come. 

"  Ah  !  from  that  silent  sacred  land 
Of  sun,  and  arid  stone, 
And  crumbling  wall,  and  sultry  sand, 
Comes  now  one  word  alone  ! 

•  From  David's  lips  that  word  did  roll ; 
'Tis  true  and  living  yet, — 


OBERMANN  ONCE  MORE.  445 

No  man  can  save  his  brother 's  soul, 
Nor  pay  his  brother's  debt. 

"Alone,  self-poised,  henceforward  man 
Must  labor  ;  must  resign 
His  all  too  human  creeds,  and  scan 
Simply  the  way  divine  ; 

"  But  slow  that  tide  of  common  thought, 
Which  bathed  our  life,  retired  ; 
Slow,  slow  the  old  world  wore  to  naught, 
And  pulse  by  pulse  expired. 

"  Its  frame  yet  stood  without  a  breach, 
When  blood  and  warmth  were  fled  ; 
And  still  it  spake  its  wonted  speech, 
But  every  word  was  dead. 

"  And  oh  !  we  cried,  that  on  this  corse 
Might  fall  a  freshening  storm  ! 
Rive  its  dry  bones,  and  with  new  force 
A  new- sprung  world  inform  ! 

"  —  Down  came  the  storm  !  O'er  France  it  passed 

In  sheets  of  scathing  fire. 

All  Europe  felt  that  fiery  blast, 

And  shook  as  it  rushed  by  her. 

"  Down  came  the  storm  !     In  ruins  fell 
The  worn-out  world  we  knew. 
It  passed,  that  elemental  swell : 
Again  appeared  the  blue  ; 

"  The  sun  shone  in  the  new-washed  sky. 
—  And  what  from  heaven  saw  he  ? 
Blocks  of  the  past,  like  icebergs  high, 
Float  on  a  rolling  sea  ! 


446  OBERMANN  ONCE   MORE. 

"Upon  them  plies  the  race  of  man 
All  it  before  endeavored  : 
'  Ye  live,'  I  cried,  '  ye  work  and  plan, 
And  know  not  ye  are  severed  ! 

"  '  Poor  fragments  of  a  broken  world, 
Whereon  men  pitch  their  tent ! 
Why  were  ye  too  to  death  not  hurled 
When  your  world's  day  was  spent  ? 

"  '  That  glow  of  central  fire  is  done 
Which  with  its  fusing  flame 
Knit  all  your  parts,  and  kept  you  one  ; 
But  ye,  ye  are  the  same  ! 

" '  The  past,  its  mask  of  union  on, 
Had  ceased  to  live  and  thrive  : 
The  past,  its  mask  of  union  gone, 
Say,  is  it  more  alive  ? 

"  '  Your  creeds  are  dead,  your  rites  are  dead, 
Your  social  order  too. 
Where  tarries  he,  the  Power  who  said,  — 
See,  I  make  all  things  new  ? 

"  '  The  millions  suffer  still,  and  grieve. 
And  what  can  helpers  heal 
With  old-world  cures  men  half  believe 
For  woes  they  wholly  feel  ? 

" '  And  yet  men  have  such  need  of  joy  ! 
But  joy  whose  grounds  are  true, 
And  joy  that  should  all  hearts  employ 
As  when  the  past  was  new. 

"  '  Ah  !  not  the  emotion  of  that  past, 
Its  common  hope,  were  vain  ! 


OBERMANN  OXCE   MORE.  447 

Some  new  such  hope  must  dawn  at  last, 
Or  man  must  toss  in  pain. 

"  '  But  now  the  old  is  out  of  date, 
The  new  is  not  yet  born. 
And  who  can  be  alone  elate, 
While  the  world  lies  forlorn?  ' 

"  Then  to  the  wilderness  I  fled. 
There  among  Alpine  snows 
And  pastoral  huts  I  hid  my  head, 
And  sought  and  found  repose. 

"  It  was  not  yet  the  appointed  hour. 
Sad,  patient,  and  resigned, 
I  watched  the  crocus  fade  and  flower, 
I  felt  the  sun  and  wind. 

"  The  day  I  lived  in  was  not  mine  : 
Man  gets  no  second  day. 
In  dreams  I  saw  the  future  shine, 
But  ah  !  I  could  not  stay  ! 

"  Action  I  had  not,  followers,  fame. 
I  passed  obscure,  alone. 
The  after-world  forgets  my  name, 
Nor  do  I  wish  it  known. 

"  Composed  to  bear,  I  lived  and  died, 
And  knew  my  life  was  vain. 
With  fate  I  murmur  not,  nor  chide. 
At  Sevres  by  the  Seine 

"  (If  Paris  that  brief  flight  allow) 
My  humble  tomb  explore  ! 
It  bears  :  Eternity,  be  thou 
My  refuge  /  and  no  more. 


44-8  OBERMANN  ONCE  MORE. 

"  But  thou,  whom  fellowship  of  mood 
Did  make  from  haunts  of  strife 
Come  to  my  mountain  solitude, 
And  learn  my  frustrate  life  ; 

"  O  thou,  who,  ere  thy  flying  span 
Was  past  of  cheerful  youth, 
Didst  find  the  solitary  man, 
And  love  his  cheerless  truth,  — 

"  Despair  not  thou  as  I  despaired, 
Nor  be  cold  gloom  thy  prison  ! 
Forward  the  gracious  hours  have  fared, 
And  see  !  the  sun  is  risen  ! 

"  He  breaks  the  winter  of  the  past ; 
A  green,  new  earth  appears. 
Millions,  whose  life  in  ice  lay  fast, 
Have  thoughts  and  smiles  and  tears. 

"  What  though  there  still  need  effort,  strife  ? 
Though  much  be  still  unwon  ? 
Yet  warm  it  mounts,  the  hour  of  life  ; 
Death's  frozen  hour  is  done. 

"  The  world's  great  order  dawns  in  sheen 
After  long  darkness  rude, 
Divinelier  imaged,  clearer  seen, 
With  happier  zeal  pursued. 

"  With  hope  extinct,  and  brow  composed, 

I  marked  the  present  die  ; 

Its  term  of  life  was  nearly  closed, 

Yet  it  had  more  than  I. 

"  But  thou,  though  to  the  world's  new  hour 
Thou  come  with  aspect  marred, 


OBERMANN  ONCE   MOKE.  449 

Shorn  of  the  joy,  the  bloom,  the  power, 
Which  best  befits  its  bard  ; 

"  Though  more  than  half  thy  years  be  past, 
And  spent  thy  youthful  prime  ; 
Though,  round  thy  firmer  manhood  cast, 
Hang  weeds  of  our  sad  time 

"  Whereof  thy  youth  felt  all  the  spell, 

And  traversed  all  the  shade,  — 

Though  late,  though  dimmed,  though  weak,  yet  tell 

Hope  to  a  world  new-made  ! 

"  Help  it  to  fill  that  deep  desire, 
The  want  which  crazed  our  brain, 
Consumed  our  soul  with  thirst  like  fire, 
Immedicable  pain ; 

"  Which  to  the  wilderness  drove  out 
Our  life,  to  Alpine  snow, 
And  palsied  all  our  word  with  doubt, 
And  all  our  work  with  woe. 

"  What  still  of  strength  is  left,  employ, 
This  end  to  help  attain  : 
One  common  wave  of  thought  and  joy 
Lifting  mankind  again  /  " 

—  The  vision  ended.     I  awoke 
As  out  of  sleep,  and  no 
Voice  moved  :  only  the  torrent  broke 
The  silence,  far  below. 

Soft  darkness  on  the  turf  did  lie  ; 
Solemn,  o'er  hut  and  wood, 
In  the  yet  star-sown  nightly  sky, 
The  peak  of  Jaman  stood. 


450  OBERMANN  ONCE   MORE. 

Still  in  my  soul  the  voice  I  heard 

Of  Obermann  !     Away 

I  turned  ;  by  some  vague  impulse  stirred, 

Along  the  rocks  of  Naye,  — 

Past  Sonchaud's  piny  flanks  I  gaze, 
And  the  blanched  summit  bare 
Of  Malatrait,  to  where  in  haze 
The  Valais  opens  fair, 

And  the  domed  Velan,  with  his  snows, 
Behind  the  upcrowding  hills, 
Doth  all  the  heavenly  opening  close 
Which  the  Rhone's  murmur  fills  ; 

And  glorious  there,  without  a  sound, 
Across  the  glimmering  lake, 
High  in  the  Valais-depth  profound, 
I  saw  the  morning  break. 


LATER  POEMS. 


WESTMINSTER   ABBEY. 

July  25,  1881. 

(  The  Day  of  Burial,  in  the  Abbey,  of  ARTHUR  Penrhyn 
Stanley,  Dean  of  Westminster.') 

What  !  for  a  term  so  scant 
Our  shining  visitant 
Cheer'd  us,  and  now  is  pass'd  into  the  night? 
Couldst  thou  no  better  keep,  O  Abbey  old, 
The  boon  thy  dedication-sign  foretold,31 
The  presence  of  that  gracious  inmate,  light  ?  — 

A  child  of  light  appear'd  ; 
Hither  he  came,  late-born  and  long-desired, 

And  to  men's  hearts  this  ancient  place  endear'd ; 
What,  is  the  happy  glow  so  soon  expired  ? 

—  Rough  was  the  winter  eve  ; 
Their  craft  the  fishers  leave, 

And  down  over  the  Thames  the  darkness  drew. 

One  still  lags  last,  and  turns,  and  eyes  the  Pile 
Huge  in  the  gloom,  across  in  Thorney  Isle, 

King  Sebert's  work,  the  wondrous  Minster  new. 

—  'Tis  Lambeth  now,  where  then 

They  moor'd  their  boats  among  the  bulrush  stems ; 

And  that  new  Minster  in  the  matted  fen 
The  world-famed  Abbey  by  the  westering  Thames. 

451 


452  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 

His  mates  are  gone,  and  he 
For  mist  can  scarcely  see 
A  strange  wayfarer  coming  to  his  side  — 

Who  bade  him  loose  his  boat,  and  fix  his  oar, 
And  row  him  straightway  to  the  further  shore, 
And  wait  while  he  did  there  a  space  abide. 

The  fisher  awed  obeys, 
That  voice  had  note  so  clear  of  sweet  command  ; 

Through  pouring  tide  he  pulls,  and  drizzling  haze, 
And  sets  his  freight  ashore  on  Thorney  strand. 


The  Minster's  outlined  mass 
Rose  dim  from  the  morass, 
And  thitherward  the  stranger  took  his  way. 
Lo,  on  a  sudden  all  the  Pile  is  bright  ! 
Nave,  choir  and  transept  glorified  with  light, 
While  tongues  of  fire  on  coign  and  carving  play  ! 

And  heavenly  odors  fair 
Come  streaming  with  the  floods  of  glory  in, 

And  carols  float  along  the  happy  air, 
As  if  the  reign  of  joy  did  now  begin. 


Then  all  again  is  dark  ; 
And  by  the  fisher's  bark 
The  unknown  passenger  returning  stands. 

O  Saxon  fisher  !  thou  hast  had  with  thee 
The  fisher  from  the  Lake  of  Galilee  — 
So  saith  he,  blessing  him  with  outspread  hands ; 

Then  fades,  but  speaks  the  while  : 
At  dawn  thou  to  King  Sebert  shalt  relate 

How  his  St.  Peter's  Church  in  Thorney  Isle 
Peter,  his  friend,  with  light  did  consecrate. 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY.  453 

Twelve  hundred  years  and  more 
Along  the  holy  floor 
Pageants  have  pass'd,  and  tombs  of  mighty  kings 
Efface  the  humbler  graves  of  Sebert's  line, 
And,  as  years  sped,  the  minster-aisles  divine 
Grew  used  to  the  approach  of  Glory's  wings. 

Arts  came,  and  arms,  and  law, 
And  majesty,  and  sacred  form  and  fear; 

Only  that  primal  guest  the  fisher  saw, 
Light,  only  light,  was  slow  to  reappear. 

The  Saviour's  happy  light, 
Wherein  at  first  was  dight 
His  boon  of  life  and  immortality, 

In  desert  ice  of  subtleties  was  spent 
Or  drown'd  in  mists  of  childish  wonderment, 
Fond  fancies  here,  there  false  philosophy  ! 

And  harsh  the  temper  grew 
Of  men  with  mind  thus  darken'd  and  astray  ; 
And  scarce  the  boon  of  life  could  struggle 
through, 
For  want  of  light  which  should  the  boon  convey. 

Yet  in  this  latter  time 
The  promise  of  the  prime 
Seem'd  to  come  true  at  last,  O  Abbey  old  ! 

It  seem'd,  a  child  of  light  did  bring  the  dower 
Foreshown  thee  in  thy  consecration-hour, 
And  in  thy  courts  his  shining  freight  unroll'd  : 

Bright  wits,  and  instincts  sure, 
And  goodness  warm,  and  truth  without  alloy, 

And  temper  sweet,  and  love  of  all  things  pure, 
And  joy  in  light,  and  power  to  spread  the  joy. 


454  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 

And  on  that  countenance  bright 
Shone  oft  so  high  a  light, 
That  to  my  mind  there  came  how,  long  ago, 
Lay  on  the  hearth,  amid  a  fiery  ring, 
The  charm'd  babe  of  the  Eleusinian  king — 32 
His  nurse,  the  Mighty  Mother,  will'd  it  so. 

Warm  in  her  breast,  by  day, 
He  slumber'd,  and  ambrosia  balm'd  the  child ; 
But  all  night  long  amid  the  flames  he  lay, 
Upon  the  hearth,  and  play'd  with  them,  and  smiled. 


But  once,  at  midnight  deep, 
His  mother  woke  from  sleep, 
And  saw  her  babe  amidst  the  fire,  and  scream'd. 
A  sigh  the  Goddess  gave,  and  with  a  frown 
Pluck'd  from  the  fire  the  child,  and  laid  him  down  ; 
Then  raised  her  face,  and  glory  round  her  stream'd. 

The  mourning-stole  no  more 
Mantled  her  form,  no  more  her  head  was  bow'd ; 

But  raiment  of  celestial  sheen  she  wore, 
And  beauty  fill'd  her,  and  she  spake  aloud  :  — 


"  O  ignorant  race  of  man  ! 
Achieve  your  good  who  can 
If  your  own  hands  the  good  begun  undo? 

Had  human  cry  not  marr'd  the  work  divine, 
Immortal  had  I  made  this  boy  of  mine  ; 
But  now  his  head  to  death  again  is  due 

And  I  have  now  no  power 
Unto  this  pious  household  to  repay 

Their  kindness  shown  me  in  my  wandering  hour." 
—  She  spake,  and  from  the  portal  pass'd  away. 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY.  455 

The  Boy  his  nurse  forgot, 
And  bore  a  mortal  lot. 
Long  since,  his  name  is  heard  on  earth  no  more. 
In  some  chance  battle  on  Cithaeron-side 
The  nursling  of  the  Mighty  Mother  died, 
And  went  where  all  his  fathers  went  before. 

—  On  thee  too,  in  thy  day 
Of  childhood,  Arthur  !  did  some  check  have  power, 
That,  radiant  though  thou  wert,  thou  couldst  but 
stay, 
Bringer  of  heavenly  light,  a  human  hour  ? 

Therefore  our  happy  guest 
Knew  care,  and  knew  unrest, 
And  weakness  warn'd  him,  and  he  fear'd  decline. 
And  in  the  grave  he  laid  a  cherish'd  wife, 
And  men  ignoble  harass'd  him  with  strife, 
And  deadly  airs  his  strength  did  undermine. 

Then  from  his  Abbey  fades 
The  sound  beloved  of  his  victorious  breath  ; 

And  light's  fair  nursling  stupor  first  invades, 
And  next  the  crowning  impotence  of  death. 

But  hush  !     This  mournful  strain, 
Which  would  of  death  complain, 
The  oracle  forbade,  not  ill-inspired.  — 

That  Pair,  whose  head  did  plan,  whose  hands  did 

forge 
The  Temple  in  the  pure  Parnassian  gorge,33 
Finish'd  their  work,  and  then  a  meed  required. 

"Seven  days,"  the  God  replied, 
"  Live  happy,  then  expect  your  perfect  meed  !  " 
Quiet  in  sleep,  the  seventh  night,  they  died. 
Death,  death  was  judged  the  boon  supreme  indeed. 


456  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 

And  truly  he  who  here 
Hath  run  his  bright  career, 
And  served  men  nobly,  and  acceptance  found, 
And  borne  to  light  and  right  his  witness  high, 
What  could  he  better  wish  than  then  to  die, 
And  wait  the  issue,  sleeping  underground? 

Why  should  he  pray  to  range 
Down  the  long  age  of  truth  that  ripens  slow  ; 

And  break  his  heart  with  all  the  baffling  change, 
And  all  the  tedious  tossing  to  and  fro  ? 


For  this  and  that  way  swings 
The  flux  of  mortal  things, 
Though  moving  inly  to  one  far-set  goal.  — 

What  had  our  Arthur  gain'd,  to  stop  and  see, 
After  light's  term,  a  term  of  cecity, 
A  Church  once  large  and  then  grown  strait  in  soul  ? 

To  live,  and  see  arise, 
Alternating  with  wisdom's  too  short  reign, 
Folly  revived,  re-furbish'd  sophistries, 
And  pullulating  rites  externe  and  vain? 


Ay  me  !     'Tis  deaf,  that  ear 
Which  joy'd  my  voice  to  hear  ; 
Yet  would  I  not  disturb  thee  from  thy  tomb, 

Thus  sleeping  in  thine  Abbey's  friendly  shade, 
And  the  rough  waves  of  life  for  ever  laid  ! 
I  would  not  break  thy  rest,  nor  change  thy  doom. 

Even  as  my  father,  thou  — 
Even  as  that  loved,  that  well-recorded  friend  — 

Hast  thy  commission  done  ;  ye  both  may  now 
Wait  for  the  leaven  to  work,  the  let  to  end. 


GEIST'S    GRAVE.  457 

And  thou,  O  Abbey  gray  ! 
Predestined  to  the  ray 
By  this  dear  guest  over  thy  precinct  shed  — 

Fear  not  but  that  thy  light  once  more  shall  burn, 
Once  more  thine  immemorial  gleam  return, 
Though  sunk  be  now  this  bright,  this  gracious  head  ! 

Let  but  the  light  appear 
And  thy  transfigured  walls  be  touch'd  with  flame  — 

Our  Arthur  will  again  be  present  here, 
Again  from  lip  to  lip  will  pass  his  name. 


GEIST'S   GRAVE. 

Four  years !  —  and  didst  thou  stay  above 
The  ground,  which  hides  thee  now,  but  four? 
And  all  that  life,  and  all  that  love, 
Were  crowded,  Geist  !  into  no  more? 

Only  four  years  those  winning  ways, 
Which  make  me  for  thy  presence  yearn, 
Call'd  us  to  pet  thee  or  to  praise, 
Dear  little  friend  !  at  every  turn  ? 

That  loving  heart,  that  patient  soul, 
Had  they  indeed  no  longer  span, 
To  run  their  course,  and  reach  their  goal, 
And  read  their  homily  to  man  ? 

That  liquid,  melancholy  eye, 
From  whose  pathetic,  soul-fed  springs 
Seem'd  surging  the  Virgilian  cry,1 
The  sense  of  tears  in  mortal  things  — 

1  Sunt  lacriime  rerum! 


458  GEIST'S    GRAVE 

That  steadfast,  mournful  strain,  consoled 

By  spirits  gloriously  gay, 

And  temper  of  heroic  mould  — 

What,  was  four  years  their  whole  short  day  ? 

Yes,  only  four  !  —  and  not  the  course 
Of  all  the  centuries  yet  to  come, 
And  not  the  infinite  resource 
Of  Nature,  with  her  countless  sum 

Of  figures,  with  her  fulness  vast 
Of  new  creation  evermore, 
Can  ever  quite  repeat  the  past, 
Or  just  thy  little  self  restore. 

Stern  law  of  every  mortal  lot  ! 

Which  man,  proud  man,  finds  hard  to  bear, 

And  builds  himself  I  know  not  what 

Of  second  life  I  know  not  where. 

But  thou,  when  struck  thine  hour  to  go, 
On  us,  who  stood  despondent  by, 
A  meek  last  glance  of  love  didst  throw, 
And  humbly  lay  thee  down  to  die. 

Yet  would  we  keep  thee  in  our  heart  — 
Would  fix  our  favorite  on  the  scene, 
Nor  let  thee  utterly  depart 
And  be  as  if  thou  ne'er  hadst  been. 

And  so  there  rise  these  lines  of  verse 

On  lips  that  rarely  form  them  now ; 

While  to  each  other  we  rehearse  : 

Such  ways,  such  arts,  such  looks  hadst  thou! 


GEZST'S   GRAVE.  459 

We  stroke  thy  broad  brown  paws  again, 
We  bid  thee  to  thy  vacant  chair, 
We  greet  thee  by  the  window-pane, 
We  hear  thy  scuffle  on  the  stair. 

We  see  the  flaps  of  thy  large  ears 
Quick  raised  to  ask  which  way  we  go ; 
Crossing  the  frozen  lake,  appears 
Thy  small  black  figure  on  the  snow  ! 

Nor  to  us  only  art  thou  dear 
Who  mourn  thee  in  thine  English  home  ; 
Thou  hast  thine  absent  master's  tear, 
Dropt  by  the  far  Australian  foam. 

Thy  memory  lasts  both  here  and  there, 
And  thou  shalt  live  as  long  as  we. 
And  after  that  —  thou  dost  not  care  ! 
In  us  was  all  the  world  to  thee. 

Yet,  fondly  zealous  for  thy  fame, 
Even  to  a  date  beyond  our  own 
We  strive  to  carry  down  thy  name, 
By  mounded  turf,  and  graven  stone. 

We  lay  thee,  close  within  our  reach, 
Here,  where  the  grass  is  smooth  and  warm, 
Between  the  holly  and  the  beech, 
Where  oft  we  watch'd  thy  couchant  form, 

Asleep,  yet  lending  half  an  ear 
To  travellers  on  the  Portsmouth  road ;  — 
There  build  we  thee,  O  guardian  dear, 
Mark'd  with  a  stone,  thy  last  abode  ! 


460  POOR   MATTHIAS. 

Then  some,  who  through  this  garden  pass, 
When  we  too,  like  thyself,  are  clay, 
Shall  see  thy  grave  upon  the  grass, 
And  stop  before  the  stone,  and  say  : 

People  who  lived  here  long  ago 

Did  by  this  stone,  it  seems,  intend 

To  name  for  future  times  to  know 

The  dachs-hound,  Geist,  their  little  friend. 


POOR  MATTHIAS. 

Poor  Matthias  !  —  Found  him  lying 
Fall'n  beneath  his  perch  and  dying  ? 
Found  him  stiff,  you  say,  though  warm- 
All  convulsed  his  little  form? 
Poor  canary  !  many  a  year 
Well  he  knew  his  mistress  dear ; 
Now  in  vain  you  call  his  name, 
Vainly  raise  his  rigid  frame, 
Vainly  warm  him  in  your  breast, 
Vainly  kiss  his  golden  crest, 
Smooth  his  ruffled  plumage  fine, 
Touch  his  trembling  beak  with  wine. 
One  more  gasp  —  it  is  the  end  ! 
Dead  and  mute  our  tiny  friend  ! 
—  Songster  thou  of  many  a  year, 
Now  thy  mistress  brings  thee  here, 
Says,  it  fits  that  I  rehearse, 
Tribute  due  to  thee,  a  verse, 
Meed  for  daily  song  of  yore 
Silent  now  for  evermore. 


POOR  MATTHIAS.  46 1 

Poor  Matthias  !     Wouldst  thou  have 
More  than  pity  ?  claim'st  a  stave  ? 

—  Friends  more  near  us  than  a  bird 
We  dismiss'd  without  a  word. 
Rover,  with  the  good  brown  head, 
Great  Atossa,  they  are  dead ; 
Dead,  and  neither  prose  nor  rhyme 
Tells  the  praises  of  their  prime. 
Thou  didst  know  them  old  and  gray, 
Know  them  in  their  sad  decay. 
Thou  hast  seen  Atossa  sage 

Sit  for  hours  beside  thy  cage  ; 
Thou  wouldst  chirp,  thou  foolish  bird, 
Flutter,  chirp  —  she  never  stirr'd  ! 
What  were  now  these  toys  to  her? 
Down  she  sank  amid  her  fur ; 
Eyed  thee  with  a  soul  resign'd  — 
And  thou  deemedst  cats  were  kind  ! 

—  Cruel,  but  composed  and  bland, 
Dumb,  inscrutable  and  grand, 

So  Tiberius  might  have  sat, 
Had  Tiberius  been  a  cat. 

Rover  died  —  Atossa  too. 
Less  than  they  to  us  are  you  ! 
Nearer  human  were  their  powers, 
Closer  knit  their  life  with  ours. 
Hands  had  stroked  them,  which  are  cold, 
Now  for  years,  in  churchyard  mould  ; 
Comrades  of  our  past  were  they, 
Of  that  unreturning  day. 
Changed  and  aging,  they  and  we 
Dwelt,  it  seem'd,  in  sympathy. 
Alway  from  their  presence  broke 


462  POOR   MATTHIAS. 

Somewhat  which  remembrance  woke 
Of  the  loved,  the  lost,  the  young  — 
Yet  they  died,  and  died  unsung. 

Geist  came  next,  our  little  friend  ; 
Geist  had  verse  to  mourn  his  end. 
Yes,  but  that  enforcement  strong 
Which  compell'd  for  Geist  a  song  - 
All  that  gay  courageous  cheer, 
All  that  human  pathos  dear ; 
Soul-fed  eyes  with  suffering  worn, 
Pain  heroically  borne, 
Faithful  love  in  depth  divine  — 
Poor  Matthias,  were  they  thine  ? 

Max  and  Kaiser  we  to-day 
Greet  upon  the  lawn  at  play  ; 
Max  a  dachs-hound  without  blot  — 
Kaiser  should  be,  but  is  not. 
Max,  with  shining  yellow  coat, 
Prinking  ears  and  dewlap  throat  — 
Kaiser,  with  his  collie  face, 
Penitent  for  want  of  race. 
—  Which  may  be  the  first  to  die, 
Vain  to  augur,  they  or  I  ! 
But,  as  age  comes  on,  I  know, 
Poet's  fire  gets  faint  and  low  ; 
If  so  be  that  travel  they 
First  the  inevitable  way, 
Much  I  doubt  if  they  shall  have 
Dirge  from  me  to  crown  their  grave. 

Yet,  poor  bird,  thy  tiny  corse 
Moves  me,  somehow,  to  remorse  ; 


POOR   MATTHIAS.  463 

Something  haunts  my  conscience,  brings 

Sad,  compunctious  visitings. 

Other  favorites,  dwelling  here, 

Open  lived  to  us,  and  near  ; 

Well  we  knew  when  they  were  glad, 

Plain  we  saw  if  they  were  sad, 

Joy'd  with  them  when  they  were  gay, 

Soothed  them  in  their  last  decay; 

Sympathy  could  feel  and  show 

Both  in  weal  of  theirs  and  woe. 

Birds,  companions  more  unknown, 
Live  beside  us,  but  alone  ; 
Finding  not,  do  all  they  can, 
Passage  from  their  souls  to  man. 
Kindness  we  bestow,  and  praise, 
Laud  their  plumage,  greet  their  lays  ; 
Still,  beneath  their  feather'd  breast, 
Stirs  a  history  unexpress'd. 
Wishes  there,  and  feelings  strong, 
Incommunicably  throng ; 
What  they  want,  we  cannot  guess, 
Fail  to  track  their  deep  distress  — 
Dull  look  on  when  death  is  nigh, 
Note  no  change,  and  let  them  die. 
Poor  Matthias  !  couldst  thou  speak, 
What  a  tale  of  thy  last  week  ! 
Every  morning  did  we  pay 
Stupid  salutations  gay, 
Suited  well  to  health,  but  how 
Mocking,  how  incongruous  now  ! 
Cake  we  offer'd,  sugar,  seed, 
Never  doubtful  of  thy  need  ; 
Praised,  perhaps,  thy  courteous  eye, 


464  POOR  MATTHIAS. 

Praised  thy  golden  livery. 
Gravely  thou  the  while,  poor  dear  ! 
Sat'st  upon  thy  perch  to  hear, 
Fixing  with  a  mute  regard 
Us,  thy  human  keepers  hard, 
Troubling,  with  our  chatter  vain, 
Ebb  of  life,  and  mortal  pain  — 
Us,  unable  to  divine 
Our  companion's  dying  sign, 
Or  o'erpass  the  severing  sea 
Set  betwixt  ourselves  and  thee, 
Till  the  sand  thy  feathers  smirch 
Fallen  dying  off  thy  perch  ! 

Was  it,  as  the  Grecian  sings, 
Birds  were  born  the  first  of  things, 
Before  the  sun,  before  the  wind, 
Before  the  gods,  before  mankind, 
Airy,  ante-mundane  throng  — 
Witness  their  unworldly  song  ! 
Proof  they  give,  too,  primal  powers, 
Of  a  prescience  more  than  ours  — 
Teach  us,  while  they  come  and  go, 
When  to  sail,  and  when  to  sow. 
Cuckoo  calling  from  the  hill, 
Swallow  skimming  by  the  mill, 
Swallows  trooping  in  the  sedge, 
Starlings  swirling  from  the  hedge, 
Mark  the  seasons,  map  our  year, 
As  they  show  and  disappear. 
But,  with  all  this  travail  sage 
Brought  from  that  anterior  age, 
Goes  an  unreversed  decree 
Whereby  strange  are  they  and  we ; 


POOR  MATTHIAS.  465 

Making  want  of  theirs,  and  plan, 
Indiscernible  by  man. 

No,  away  with  tales  like  these 
Stol'n  from  Aristophanes  ! 34 
Does  it,  if  we  miss  your  mind, 
Prove  us  so  remote  in  kind  ? 
Birds  !  we  but  repeat  on  you 
What  amongst  ourselves  we  do. 
Somewhat  more  or  somewhat  less, 
Tis  the  same  unskilfulness. 
What  you  feel,  escapes  our  ken  — 
Know  we  more  our  fellow  men  ? 
Human  suffering  at  our  side, 
Ah,  like  yours  is  undescried  ! 
Human  longings,  human  fears, 
Miss  our  eyes  and  miss  our  ears- 
Little  helping,  wounding  much, 
Dull  of  heart,  and  hard  of  touch, 
Brother  man's  despairing  sign 
Who  may  trust  us  to  divine  ? 
Who  assure  us,  sundering  powers 
Stand  not  'twixt  his  soul  and  ours? 

Poor  Matthias  !     See,  thy  end 
What  a  lesson  doth  it  lend  ! 
For  that  lesson  thou  shalt  have, 
Dead  canary  bird,  a  stave  ! 
Telling  how,  one  stormy  day, 
Stress  of  gale  and  showers  of  spray 
Drove  my  daughter  small  and  me 
Inland  from  the  rocks  and  sea. 
Driv'n  inshore,  we  follow  down 
Ancient  streets  of  Hastings  town  — 


466  POOR  MATTHIAS. 

Slowly  thread  them — when  behold, 

French  canary- merchant  old 

Shepherding  his  flock  of  gold 

In  a  low  dim-lighted  pen 

Scann'd  of  tramps  and  fishermen  ! 

There  a  bird,  high-colored,  fat, 

Proud  of  port,  though  something  squat 

Pursy,  play'd-out  Philistine  — 

Dazzled  Nelly's  youthful  eyne. 

But,  far  in,  obscure,  there  stirr'd 

On  his  perch  a  sprightlier  bird, 

Courteous-eyed,  erect  and  slim  ; 

And  I  whisper'd  :  "  Fix  on  him!  " 

Home  we  brought  him,  young  and  fair, 

Songs  to  trill  in  Surrey  air. 

Here  Matthias  sang  his  fill, 

Saw  the  cedars  of  Pains  Hill ; 

Here  he  pour'd  his  little  soul, 

Heard  the  murmur  of  the  Mole. 

Eight  in  number  now  the  years 

He  hath  pleased  our  eyes  and  ears  ; 

Other  favorites  he  hath  known 

Go,  and  now  himself  is  gone. 

—  Fare  thee  well,  companion  dear  ! 

Fare  for  ever  well,  nor  fear, 

Tiny  though  thou  art,  to  stray 

Down  the  uncompanion'd  way  ! 

We  without  thee,  little  friend, 

Many  years  have  not  to  spend ; 

What  are  left,  will  hardly  be 

Better  than  we  spent  with  thee. 


KAISER  DEAD.  467 


KAISER   DEAD. 

April  6,  1S87. 

What,  Kaiser  dead  ?    The  heavy  news 
Post-haste  to  Cobham  calls  the  Muse, 
From  where  in  Farringford  she  brews 

The  ode  sublime, 
Or  with  Pen-bryn's  bold  bard  pursues 

A  rival  rhyme. 

Kai's  bracelet  tail,  Kai's  busy  feet, 
Were  known  to  all  the  village-street. 
"What,  poor  Kai  dead?"  say  all  I  meet; 

"  A  loss  indeed  !  " 
O  for  the  croon  pathetic,  sweet, 

Of  Robin's  reed  ! » 

Six  years  ago  I  brought  him  down, 

A  baby  dog,  from  London  town ; 

Round  his  small  throat  of  black  and  brown 

A  ribbon  blue, 
And  vouch'd  by  glorious  renown 

A  dachs-hound  true. 

His  mother,  most  majestic  dame, 

Of  blood-unmix'd,  from  Potsdam  came ; 

And  Kaiser's  race  we  deem'd  the  same  — 

No  lineage  higher. 
And  so  he  bore  the  imperial  name. 

But  ah,  his  sire  ! 


468  KAISER  DEAD. 

Soon,  soon  the  days  conviction  bring. 
The  collie  hair,  the  collie  swing, 
The  tail's  indomitable  ring, 

The  eye's  unrest  — 
The  case  was  clear  ;  a  mongrel  thing 

Kai  stood  confest. 

But  all  those  virtues,  which  commend 
The  humbler  sort  who  serve  and  tend, 
Were  thine  in  store,  thou  faithful  friend. 

What  sense,  what  cheer  ! 
To  us,  declining  tow'rds  our  end, 

A  mate  how  dear  ! 

For  Max,  thy  brother-dog,  began 
To  flag,  and  feel  his  narrowing  span. 
And  cold,  besides,  his  blue  blood  ran, 

Since,  'gainst  the  classes, 
He  heard,  of  late,  the  Grand  Old  Man 

Incite  the  masses. 

Yes,  Max  and  we  grew  slow  and  sad  ; 
But  Kai,  a  tireless  shepherd-lad, 
Teeming  with  plans,  alert,  and  glad 

In  work  or  play, 
Like  sunshine  went  and  came,  and  bade 

Live  out  the  day  ! 

Still,  still  I  see  the  figure  smart  — 

Trophy  in  mouth,  agog  to  start, 

Then,  home  return'd,  once  more  depart ; 

Or  prest  together 
Against  thy  mistress,  loving  heart, 

In  winter  weather. 


KAISER  DEAD.  469 

I  see  the  tail,  like  bracelet  twirl'd, 
In  moments  of  disgrace  uncurl'd, 
Then  at  a  pardoning  word  re-furFd, 

A  conquering  sign  ; 
Crying,  "  Come  on,  and  range  the  world, 

And  never  pine." 

Thine  eye  was  bright,  thy  coat  it  shone ; 
Thou  hadst  thine  errands,  off  and  on ; 
In  joy  thy  last  morn  flew  ;  anon, 

A  fit !     All's  over  ; 
And  thou  art  gone  where  Geist  hath  gone, 

And  Toss,  and  Rover. 

Poor  Max,  with  downcast,  reverent  head, 
Regards  his  brother's  form  outspread  ; 
Full  well  Max  knows  the  friend  is  dead 

Whose  cordial  talk, 
And  jokes  in  doggish  language  said, 

Beguiled  his  walk. 


-s1- 


And  Glory,  stretch'd  at  Burwood  gate, 
Thy  passing  by  doth  vainly  wait ; 
And  jealous  Jock,  thy  only  hate, 

The  chiel  from  Skye, 
Lets  from  his  shaggy  Highland  pate 

Thy  memory  die. 

Well,  fetch  his  graven  collar  fine, 
And  rub  the  steel,  and  make  it  shine, 
And  leave  it  round  thy  neck  to  twine, 

Kai,  in  thy  grave. 
There  of  thy  master  keep  that  sign, 

And  this  plain  stave. 


470  S.   S.  " LUSITANIA." 


S.  S.  "LUSITANIA." 

Nineteenth  Century,  No.  XXIII.,  January,  1879. 

I  read  in  Dante  how  that  horned  light, 
Which  hid  Ulysses,  waved  itself  and  said  : 
"  Following  the  sun,  we  set  our  vessel's  head 
To  the  great  main ;  pass'd  Seville  on  the  right 

"And  Ceuta  on  the  left  \  then  southward  sped. 
And  last  in  air,  far  off,  dim  rose  a  Height. 
We  cheer'd  ;  but  from  it  rush'd  a  blast  of  might, 
And  struck  —  and  o'er  us  the  sea-waters  spread." 

I  dropp'd  the  book,  and  of  my  child  I  thought 
In  his  long  black  ship  speeding  night  and  day 
O'er  those  same  seas  ;  dark  Teneriffe  rose,  fraught 

With  omen  ;  "  Oh  !  were  that  Mount  pass'd,"  I  say. 
Then  the  door  opens  and  this  card  is  brought : 
"  Reach'd  Cape  Verde  Islands,  '  Lusitania.'  " 


ADDITIONAL  EARLY  POEMS. 


ALARIC  AT  ROME. 

A  Prize  Poem  recited  in  Rugby  School,  June  12,  1840. 

Admire,  exult,  despise,  laugh,  tveep,  for  here 
There  is  such  /natter  for  all  feeling. 

Childe  Harold. 

I. 

Unwelcome  shroud  of  the  forgotten  dead, 
Oblivion's  dreary  fountain,  where  art  thou  : 
Why  speed'st  thou  not  thy  deathlike  wave  to  shed 
O'er  humbled  pride,  and  self- reproaching  woe  : 
Or  time's  stern  hand,  why  blots  it  not  away 
The  saddening  tale  that  tells  of  sorrow  and  decay  ? 

II. 

There  are,  whose  glory  passeth  not  away  — 
Even  in  the  grave  their  fragrance  cannot  fade  : 
Others  there  are  as  deathless  full  as  they, 
Who  for  themselves  a  monument  have  made 
By  their  own  crimes  —  a  lesson  to  all  eyes  — 
Of  wonder  to  the  fool  —  of  warning  to  the  wise. 

47i 


472  ALARIC  AT  ROME. 

III. 

Yes,  there  are  stories  registered  on  high, 
Yes,  there  are  stains  time's  fingers  cannot  blot, 
Deeds  that  shall  live  when  they  who  did  them,  die  ; 
Things  that  may  cease,  but  never  be  forgot : 
Yet  some  there  are,  their  very  lives  would  give 
To  be  remembered  thus,  and  yet  they  cannot  live. 

IV. 

But  thou,  imperial  City  !  that  hast  stood 
In  greatness  once,  in  sackcloth  now  and  tears, 
A  mighty  name,  for  evil  or  for  good, 
Even  in  the  loneness  of  thy  widowed  years  : 
Thou  that  hast  gazed,  as  the  world  hurried  by, 
Upon  its  headlong  course  with  sad  prophetic  eye. 

v. 

Is  thine  the  laurel-crown  that  greatness  wreathes 
Round  the  wan  temples  of  the  hallowed  dead  — 
Is  it  the  blighting  taint  dishonor  breathes 
In  fires  undying  o'er  the  guilty  head, 
Or  the  brief  splendor  of  that  meteor  light 
That  for  a  moment  gleams,  and  all  again  is  night? 

VI. 

Fain  would  we  deem  that  thou  hast  risen  so  high 
Thy  dazzling  light  an  eagle's  gaze  should  tire ; 
No  meteor  brightness  to  be  seen  and  die, 
No  passing  pageant,  born  but  to  expire, 
But  full  and  deathless  as  the  deep  dark  hue 
Of  ocean's  sleeping  face,  or  heaven's  unbroken  blue. 


ALARIC  AT  ROME.  473 


VII. 


Yet  stains  there  are  to  blot  thy  brightest  page, 
And  wither  half  the  laurels  on  thy  tomb  ; 
A  glorious  manhood,  yet  a  dim  old  age, 
And  years  of  crime,  and  nothingness,  and  gloom  : 
And  then  that  mightiest  crash,  that  giant  fall, 
Ambition's  boldest  dream  might  sober  and  appal. 

VIII. 

Thou  wondrous  chaos,  where  together  dwell 
Present  and  past,  the  living  and  the  dead, 
Thou  shattered  mass,  whose  glorious  ruins  tell 
The  vanisht  might  of  that  discrowned  head  : 
Where  all  we  see,  or  do,  or  hear,  or  say, 
Seems  strangely  echoed  back  by  tones  of  yesterday  : 

IX. 

Thou  solemn  grave,  where  every  step  we  tread 
Treads  on  the  slumbering  dust  of  other  years ; 
The  while  there  sleeps  within  thy  precincts  dread 
What  once  had  human  passions,  hopes,  and  fears ; 
And  memory's  gushing  tide  swells  deep  and  full 
And  makes  thy  very  ruin  fresh  and  beautiful. 


Alas,  no  common  sepulchre  art  thou, 
No  habitation  for  the  nameless  dead, 
Green  turf  above,  and  crumbling  dust  below, 
Perchance  some  mute  memorial  at  their  head, 
But  one  vast  fane  where  all  unconscious  sleep 
Earth's  old  heroic  forms  in  peaceful  slumbers  deep. 


474  ALAR1C  AT  ROME. 

XI. 

Thy  dead  are  kings,  thy  dust  are  palaces, 
Relics  of  nations  thy  memorial-stones  : 
And  the  dim  glories  of  departed  days 
Fold  like  a  shroud  around  thy  withered  bones  : 
And  o'er  thy  towers  the  wind's  half-uttered  sigh 
Whispers,  in  mournful  tones,  thy  silent  elegy. 

XII. 

Yes,  in  such  eloquent  silence  didst  thou  lie 
When  the  Goth  stooped  upon  his  stricken  prey, 
And  the  deep  hues  of  an  Italian  sky 
Flasht  on  the  rude  barbarian's  wild  array  : 
While  full  and  ceaseless  as  the  ocean  roll, 
Horde  after  horde  streamed  up  thy  frowning  Capitol. 

XIII. 

Twice,  ere  that  day  of  shame,  the  embattled  foe 
Had  gazed  in  wonder  on  that  glorious  sight ; 
Twice  had  the  eternal  city  bowed  her  low 
In  sullen  homage  to  the  invader's  might : 
Twice  had  the  pageant  of  that  vast  array 
Swept,  from  thy  walls,  O  Rome,  on  its  triumphant  way. 

XIV. 

Twice,  from  without  thy  bulwarks,  hath  the  din 
Of  Gothic  clarion  smote  thy  startled  ear  ; 
Anger,  and  strife,  and  sickness  are  within, 
Famine  and  sorrow  are  no  strangers  here  : 
Twice  hath  the  cloud  hung  o'er  thee,  twice  been 
stayed 
Even  in  the  act  to  burst,  twice  threatened,  twice  delayed. 


ALARIC  AT  ROME.  4?$ 

XV. 

Vet  once  again,  stern  Chief,  yet  once  again, 
Pour  forth  the  foaming  vials  of  thy  wrath  : 
There  lies  thy  goal,  to  miss  or  to  attain, 
Gird  thee,  and  on  upon  thy  fateful  path, 
The  world  hath  bowed  to  Rome,  oh  !  cold  were  he 
Who  would  not  burst  his  bonds,  and  in  his  turn  be  free. 

XVI. 

Therefore  arise  and  arm  thee  !  lo,  the  world 
Looks  on  in  fear !  and  when  the  seal  is  set, 
The  doom  pronounced,  the  battle-flag  unfurled, 
Scourge  of  the  nations,  wouldest  thou  linger  yet? 
Arise  and  arm  thee  !  spread  thy  banners  forth, 
Pour  from  a  thousand  hills  thy  warriors  of  the  north  ! 

XVII. 

Hast  thou  not  marked  on  a  wild  autumn  day 
When  the  wind  slumbereth  in  a  sudden  lull, 
What  deathlike  stillness  o'er  the  landscape  lay, 
How  calmly  sad,  how  sadly  beautiful; 
How  each  bright  tint  of  tree,  and  flower,  and  heath 
Were  mingling  with  the  sere  and  withered  hues  of  death. 

XVIII. 

And  thus,  beneath  the  clear,  calm  vault  of  heaven 
In  mournful  loveliness  that  city  lay, 
And  thus,  amid  the  glorious  hues  of  even 
That  city  told  of  languor  and  decay  : 
Till  what  at  morning's  hour  lookt  warm  and  bright 
Was  cold  and  sad  beneath  that  breathless,  voiceless 
night. 


47^  ALARIC  AT  ROME. 

XIX. 

Soon  was  that  stillness  broken  :  like  the  cry 
Of  the  hoarse  onset  of  the  surging  wave, 
Or  louder  rush  of  whirlwinds  sweeping  by 
Was  the  wild  shout  those  Gothic  myriads  gave, 
As  towered  on  high,  above  their  moonlit  road, 
Scenes  where  a  Csesar  triumpht,  or  a  Scipio  trod. 

xx. 

Think  ye  it  strikes  too  slow,  the  sword  of  fate, 
Think  ye  the  avenger  loiters  on  his  way, 
That  your  own  hands  must  open  wide  the  gate, 
And  your  own  voice  must  guide  him  to  his  prey ; 
Alas,  it  needs  not ;  is  it  hard  to  know 
Fate's  threat'nings  are  not  vain,  the  spoiler  comes  not 
slow. 

XXI. 

And  were  there  none,  to  stand  and  weep  alone, 
And  as  the  pageant  swept  before  their  eyes 
To  hear  a  dim  and  long-forgotten  tone 
Tell  of  old  times,  and  holiest  memories, 
Till  fanciful  regret  and  dreamy  woe 
Peopled  night's  voiceless  shades  with  forms  of  long  Ago. 

XXII. 

Oh  yes  !  if  fancy  feels,  beyond  to-day, 
Thoughts  of  the  past  and  of  the  future  time, 
How  should  that  mightiest  city  pass  away 
And  not  bethink  her  of  her  glorious  prime, 
Whilst  every  chord  that  thrills  at  thoughts  of  home 
Jarr'd  with  the  bursting  shout,  "  they  come,  the  Goth, 
they  come  !  " 


ALARIC  AT  ROME.  477 

XXIII. 

The  trumpet  swells  yet  louder  :  they  are  here  ! 
Yea,  on  your  fathers'  bones  the  avengers  tread, 
Not  this  the  time  to  weep  upon  the  bier 
That  holds  the  ashes  of  your  hero-dead,  < 

If  wreaths  may  twine  for  you,  or  laurels  wave, 
They  shall  not  deck  your  life,  but  sanctify  your  grave. 

XXIV. 

Alas  !  no  wreaths  are  here.     Despair  may  teach 
Cowards  to  conquer  and  the  weak  to  die ; 
Nor  tongue  of  man,  nor  fear,  nor  shame  can  preach 
So  stern  a  lesson  as  necessity, 
Yet  here  it  speaks  not.     Yea,  though  all  around 
Unhallowed  feet  are  trampling  on  this  haunted  ground, 

XXV. 

Though  every  holiest  feeling,  every  tie 
That  binds  the  heart  of  man  with  mightiest  power, 
All  natural  love,  all  human  sympathy 
Be  crusht,  and  outraged  in  this  bitter  hour, 
Here  is  no  echo  to  the  sound  of  home, 
No  shame  that  suns  should  rise  to  light  a  conquer'd 
.    Rome. 

XXVI. 

That  troublous  night  is  over  :  on  the  brow 
Of  thy  stern  hill,  thou  mighty  Capitol, 
One  form  stands  gazing  :  silently  below 
The  morning  mists  from  tower  and  temple  roll, 
And  lo  !  the  eternal  city,  as  they  rise, 
Bursts,  in  majestic  beauty,  on  her  conqueror's  eyes. 


478  AJ.AKIC  AT  ROME. 

XXVI  I. 

Yes,  there  he  stood,  upon  that  silent  hill, 
And  there  beneath  his  feet  his  conquest  lay  : 
Unlike  that  ocean-city,  gazing  still 
Smilingly  forth  upon  her  sunny  bay, 
But  o'er  her  vanisht  might  and  humbled  pride 
Mourning,  as  widowed  Venice  o'er  her  Adrian  tide. 

XXVIII. 

Breathe  there  not  spirits  on  the  peopled  air? 
Float  there  not  voices  on  the  murmuring  wind? 
Oh  !  sound  there  not  some  strains  of  sadness  there, 
To  touch  with  sorrow  even  a  victor's  mind, 
And  wrest  one  tear  from  joy  !     Oh  !  who  shall  pen 
The   thoughts   that    toucht    thy   breast,   thou   lonely 
conqueror,  then? 

XXIX. 

Perchance  his  wandering  heart  was  far  away, 
Lost  in  dim  memories  of  his  early  home, 
And  his  young  dreams  of  conquest ;  how  to-day 
Beheld  him  master  of  Imperial  Rome, 
Crowning  his  wildest  hopes  :  perchance  his  eyes 
As  they  looked  sternly  on,  beheld  new  victories, 

XXX. 

New  dreams  of  wide  dominion,  mightier,  higher, 
Come  floating  up  from  the  abyss  of  years ; 
Perchance  that  solemn  sight  might  quench  the  fire 
Even  of  that  ardent  spirit ;  hopes  and  fears 
Might  well  be  mingling  at  that  murmured  sigh, 
Whispering  from  all  around,  "  All  earthly  things  must 
die." 


ALARlC  AT  ROME.  479 

XXXI. 

Perchance  that  wondrous  city  was  to  him 

But  as  one  voiceless  blank  ;  a  place  of  graves, 

And  recollections  indistinct  and  dim, 

Whose  sons  were  conquerors  once,  and  now  were 

slaves  : 
It  may  be  in  that  desolate  sight  his  eye 
Saw  but  another  step  to  climb  to  victory  ! 

XXXII. 

Alas  !  that  fiery  spirit  little  knew 
The  change  of  life,  the  nothingness  of  power, 
How  both  were  hastening,  as  they  flowered  and  grew, 
Nearer  and  nearer  to  their  closing  hour  : 
How  every  birth  of  time's  miraculous  womb 
Swept  off  the  withered  leaves  that  hide  the  naked  tomb. 

XXXIII. 

One  little  year ;  that  restless  soul  shall  rest, 
That  frame  of  vigor  shall  be  crumbling  clay, 
And  tranquilly,  above  that  troubled  breast, 
The  sunny  waters  hold  their  joyous  way  : 
And  gently  shall  the  murmuring  ripples  flow, 
Nor  wake  the  weary  soul  that  slumbers  on  below. 

XXXIV. 

Alas  !  far  other  thoughts  might  well  be  ours 
And  dash  our  holiest  raptures  while  we  gaze  : 
Energies  wasted,  unimproved  hours, 
The  saddening  visions  of  departed  days  : 
And  while  they  rise  here  might  we  stand  alone, 
And  mingle  with  thy  ruins  somewhat  of  our  own. 


480  ALA  NIC  AT  ROME. 

XXXV. 

Beautiful  city  !     If  departed  things 
Ever  again  put  earthly  likeness  on, 
Here  should  a  thousand  forms  on  fancy's  wings 
Float  up  to  tell  of  ages  that  are  gone  : 
Yea  though  hand  touch  thee  not,  nor  eye  should  see, 
Still  should  the  spirit  hold  communion,  Rome,  with 
thee  ! 

xxxvi. 

Oh  !  it  is  bitter,  that  each  fairest  dream 
Should  fleet  before  us  but  to  melt  away ; 
That  wildest  visions  still  should  loveliest  seem 
And  soonest  fade  in  the  broad  glare  of  clay  : 
That  while  we  feel  the  world  is  dull  and  low, 
Gazing  on  thee,  we  wake  to  find  it  is  not  so. 

XXXVII. 

A  little  while,  alas  !  a  little  while, 
And  the  same  world  has  tongue,  and  ear,  and  eye, 
The  careless  glance,  the  cold  unmeaning  smile, 
The  thoughtless  word,  the  lack  of  sympathy  ! 
Who  would  not  turn  him  from  the  barren  sea 
And  rest  his  weary  eyes  on  the  green  land  and  thee  ! 

XXXVIII. 

So  pass  we  on.     But  oh  !  to  harp  aright 
The  vanisht  glories  of  thine  early  day, 
There  needs  a  minstrel  of  diviner  might, 
A  holier  incense  than  this  feeble  lay ; 
To  chant  thy  requiem  with  more  passionate  breath, 
And  twine  with  bolder  hand  thy  last  memorial  wreath  ! 


CROMWELL.  481 


CROMWELL. 

A  Prize  Poem  recited  in  the  Theatre,  Oxford,  June  28,  1843. 


Schrecklich  ist  es,  deiner  Wahrheit 
Sterbliches  Gef'dss  zit  seyn. 


Schiller. 


High  fate  is  theirs,  ye  sleepless  waves,  whose  ear 
Learns  Freedom's  lesson  from  your  voice  of  fear ; 
Whose  spell-bound  sense  from  childhood's  hour  hath 

known 
Familiar  meanings  in  your  mystic  tone  : 
Sounds  of  deep  import  —  voices  that  beguile 
Age  of  its  tears  and  childhood  of  its  smile, 
To  yearn  with  speechless  impulse  to  the  free 
And  gladsome  greetings  of  the  buoyant  sea  ! 
High  fate  is  theirs,  who  where  the  silent  sky 
Stoops  to  the  soaring  mountains,  live  and  die ; 
Who  scale  the  cloud-capt  height,  or  sink  to  rest 
In  the  deep  stillness  of  its  shelt'ring  breast ;  — 
Around  whose  feet  the  exulting  waves  have  sung, 
The  eternal  hills  their  giant  shadows  flung. 

No  wonders  nurs'd  thy  childhood  ;  not  for  thee 
Did  the  waves  chant  their  song  of  liberty  ! 
Thine  was  no  mountain  home,  where  Freedom's  form 
Abides  enthron'd  amid  the  mist  and  storm, 
And  whispers  to  the  listening  winds,  tKat  swell 
With  solemn  cadence  round  her  citadel  ! 
These  had  no  sound  for  thee  :  that  cold  calm  eye 
Lit  with  no  rapture  as  the  storm  swept  by, 
To  mark  with  shiver'd  crest  the  reeling  wave 


482  CROMWELL. 

Hide  his  torn  head  beneath  his  sunless  cave  ; 
Or  hear  'mid  circling  crags,  the  impatient  cry 
Of  the  pent  winds,  that  scream  in  agony  ! 
Yet  all  high  sounds  that  mountain  children  hear 
Flash'd  from  thy  soul  upon  thine  inward  ear ; 
All  Freedom's  mystic  language  —  storms  that  roar 
By  hill  or  wave,  the  mountain  or  the  shore,  — 
All  these  had  stirr'd  thy  spirit,  and  thine  eye 
In  common  sights  read  secret  sympathy ; 
Till  all  bright  thoughts  that  hills  or  waves  can  yield 
Deck'd  the  dull  waste,  and  the  familiar  field ; 
Or  wondrous  sounds  from  tranquil  skies  were  borne 
Far  o'er  the  glistening  sheets  of  windy  corn  : 
Skies  —  that,  unbound  by  clasp  of  mountain  chain, 
Slope  stately  down,  and  melt  into  the  plain ; 
Sounds  —  such  as  erst  the  lone  wayfaring  man 
Caught,  as  he  journeyed,  from  the  lips  of  Pan ; 
Or  that  mysterious  cry,  that  smote  with  fear, 
Like  sounds  from  other  worlds,  the  Spartan's  ear, 
While  o'er  the  dusty  plain,  the  murmurous  throng 
Of  Heaven's  embattled  myriads  swept  along. 

Say  not  such  dreams  are  idle  :  for  the  man 
Still  toils  to  perfect  what  the  child  began  ; 
And  thoughts,  that  were  but  outlines,  time  engraves 
Deep  on  his  life  ;  and  childhood's  baby  waves, 
Made  rough  with  care,  become  the  changeful  sea, 
Stemm'd  by  the  strength  of  manhood  fearlessly ; 
And  fleeting  thoughts,  that  on  the  lonely  wild 
Swept  o'er  the  fancy  of  that  heedless  child, 
Perchance  had  quicken'd  with  a  living  truth 
The  cold  dull  soil  of  his  unfruitful  youth  ; 
Till  with  his  daily  life,  a  life  that  threw 
Its  shadows  o'er  the  future  flower'd  and  grew, 


CROMWELL.  483 

With  common  cares  unmingling,  and  apart, 
Haunting  the  shrouded  chambers  of  his  heart; 
Till  life  unstirr'd  by  action,  life  became 
Threaded  and  lighten'd  by  a  track  of  flame  ; 
An  inward  light,  that,  with  its  streaming  ray 
On  the  dark  current  of  his  changeless  day, 
Bound  all  his  being  with  a  silver  chain  — 
Like  a  swift  river  through  a  silent  plain  ! 

High  thoughts  were  his,  when  by  the  gleaming  flood, 
With  heart  new  strung,  and  stern  resolve,  he  stood  ; 
Where  rode  the  tall  dark  ships,  whose  loosen'd  sail 
All  idly  flutter'd  in  the  eastern  gale ; 
High  thoughts  were  his ;    but  Memory's  glance   the 

while 
Fell  on  the  cherish'd  past  with  tearful  smile ; 
And  peaceful  joys  and  gentler  thoughts  swept  by, 
Like  summer  lightnings  o'er  a  darken'd  sky. 
The  peace  of  childhood,  and  the  thoughts  that  roam, 
Like  loving  shadows,  round  that  childhood's  home ; 
Joys  that  had  come  and  vanish'd,  half  unknown, 
Then  slowly  brighten'd,  as  the  days  had  flown ; 
Years  that  were  sweet  or  sad,  becalm'd  or  toss'd 
On  life's  wild  waves  —  the  living  and  the  lost. 
Youth  stain'd  with  follies  :  and  the  thoughts  of  ill 
Crush'd,  as  they  rose,  by  manhood's  sterner  will. 
Repentant  prayers,  that  had  been  strong  to  save  ; 
And  the  first  sorrow,  which  is  childhood's  grave  ! 
All  shapes  that  haunt  remembrance  —  soft  and  fair, 
Like  a  green  land  at  sunset,  all  were  there  ! 
Eyes  that  he  knew,  old  faces  unforgot, 
Gaz'd  sadly  down  on  his  unrestful  lot, 
And  Memory's  calm  clear  voice,  and  mournful  eye, 
Chill'd  every  buoyant  hope  that  floated  by  ; 


484  CROMWELL. 

Like  frozen  winds  on  southern  vales  that  blow 
From  a  far  land  —  the  children  of  the  snow  — 
O'er  flowering  plain  and  blossom'd  meadow  fling 
The  cold  dull  shadow  of  their  icy  wing. 

Then  Fancy's  roving  visions,  bold  and  free, 
A  moment  dispossess'd  reality. 
All  airy  hopes  that  idle  hearts  can  frame, 
Like  dreams  between  two  sorrows,  went  and  came  : 
Fond  hearts  that  fain  would  clothe  the  unwelcome  truth 
Of  toilsome  manhood  in  the  dreams  of  youth, 
To  bend  in  rapture  at  some  idle  throne, 
Some  lifeless  soulless  phantom  of  their  own ; 
Some  shadowy  vision  of  a  tranquil  life, 
Of  joys  unclouded,  years  unstirr'd  by  strife  ; 
Of  sleep  unshadow'd  by  a  dream  of  woe  ; 
Of  many  a  lawny  hill,  and  streams  with  silver  flow ; 
Of  giant  mountains  by  the  western  main, 
The  sunless  forest,  and  the  sealike  plain ; 
Those  lingering  hopes  of  coward  .hearts,  that  still 
Would  play  the  traitor  to  the  steadfast  will, 
One  moment's  space,  perchance,  might  charm  his  eye 
From  the  stern  future,  and  the  years  gone  by. 
One  moment's  space  might  waft  him  far  away 
To  western  shores  —  the  death-place  of  the  day  ! 
Might  paint  the  calm,  sweet  peace  —  the  rest  of  home, 
Far  o'er  the  pathless  waste  of  laboring  foam  — 
Peace,  that  recall'd  his  childish  hours  anew, 
More  calm,  more  deep,  than  childhood  ever  knew  ! 
Green  happy  places,  like  a  flowery  lea 
Between  the  barren  mountains  and  the  stormy  sea. 

O  pleasant  rest,  if  once  the  race  were  run  i 
O  happy  slumber,  if  the  day  were  done  ! 


CROMWELL.  485 

Dreams  that  were  sweet  at  eve,  at  morn  were  sin  ; 

With  cares  to  conquer,  and  a  goal  to  win  ! 

His  were  no  tranquil  years  —  no  languid  sleep  — 

No  life  of  dreams  —  no  home  beyond  the  deep  — 

No  softening  ray  —  no  visions  false  and  wild  — 

No  glittering  hopes  on  life's  gray  distance  smiled  — 

Like  isles  of  sunlight  on  a  mountain's  brow, 

Lit  by  a  wandering  gleam,  we  know  not  how, 

Far  on  the  dim  horizon,  when  the  sky 

With  glooming  clouds  broods  dark  and  heavily. 

Then  his  eye  slumber'd,  and  the  chain  was  broke 
That  bound  his  spirit,  and  his  heart  awoke  ; 
Then,  like  a  kingly  river  swift  and  strong, 
The  future  roll'd  its  gathering  tides  along  ! 
The  shout  of  onset  and  the  shriek  of  fear 
Smote,  like  the  rush  of  waters,  on  his  ear ; 
And  his  eye  kindled  with  the  kindling  fray, 
The  surging  battle  and  the  mail'd  array  ! 
All  wondrous  deeds  the  coming  days  should  see, 
And  the  long  Vision  of  the  years  to  be. 
Pale  phantom  hosts,  like  shadows,  faint  and  far, 
Councils,  and  armies,  and  the  pomp  of  war  ! 
And  one  sway'd  all,  who  wore  a  kingly  crown, 
Until  another  rose  and  smote  him  down  : 
A  form  that  tower'd  above  his  brother  men ; 
A  form  he  knew  —  but  it  was  shrouded  then  ! 
With  stern,  slow  steps,  unseen  yet  still  the  same, 
By  leaguer'd  tower  and  tented  field  it  came ; 
By  Naseby's  hill,  o'er  Marston's  heathy  waste, 
By  Worcester's  field,  the  warrior-vision  pass'd  ! 
From  their  deep  base,  thy  beetling  cliffs,  Dunbar, 
Rang,  as  he  trode  them,  with  the  voice  of  war  ! 
The  soldier  kindled  at  his  words  of  fire  ; 


486  CROMWELL. 

The  statesman  quail'd  before  his  glance  of  ire  ! 
Worn  was  his  brow  with  cares  no  thought  could  scan, 
His  step  was  loftier  than  the  steps  of  man  ; 
And  the  winds  told  his  glory,  and  the  wave 
Sonorous  witness  to  his  empire  gave  ! 

What  forms  are  these,  that  with  complaining  sound, 
And  slow  reluctant  steps  are  gathering  round  ? 
Forms  that  with  him  shall  tread  life's  changing  stage, 
Cross  his  lone  path,  or  share  his  pilgrimage. 
There,  as  he  gazed,  a  wond'rous  band  —  they  came, 
Pym's  look  of  hate,  and  Strafford's  glance  of  flame  : 
There  Laud,  with  noiseless  steps  and  glittering  eye, 
In  priestly  garb,  a  frail  old  man,  went  by ; 
His  drooping  head  bowed  meekly  on  his  breast ; 
His  hands  were  folded,  like  a  saint  at  rest ! 
There  Hampden  bent  him  o'er  his  saddle  bow, 
And  death's  cold  dews  bedimm'd  his  earnest  brow; 
Still  turn'd  to  watch  the  battle  —  still  forgot 
Himself,  his  sufferings,  in  his  country's  lot ! 
There  Falkland  eyed  the  strife  that  would  not  cease, 
Shook  back  his  tangled  locks,  and  murmur'd  "  Peace  !  " 
With  feet  that  spurn'd  the  ground,  lo  !  Milton  there 
Stood  like  a  statue  ;  and  his  face  was  fair  — 
Fair  beyond  human  beauty  ;  and  his  eye, 
That  knew  not  earth,  soar'd  upwards  to  the  sky  ! 

He,  too,  was  there  —  it  was  the  princely  boy, 
The  child-companion  of  his  childish  joy  ! 
But  oh  !  how  chang'd  !  those  deathlike  features  wore 
Childhood's  bright  glance  and  sunny  smile  no  more  ! 
That  brow  so  sad,  so  pale,  so  full  of  care  — 
What  trace  of  careless  childhood  linger'd  there? 
What  spring  of  youth  in  that  majestic  mien, 


CROMWELL.  487 

So  sadly  calm,  so  kingly,  so  serene? 
No  —  all  was  chang'd  !  the  monarch  wept  alone, 
Between  a  ruin'd  church  and  shatter'd  throne  ! 
Friendless  and  hopeless  —  like  a  lonely  tree, 
On  some  bare  headland  straining  mournfully, 
That  all  night  long  its  weary  moan  doth  make 
To  the  vex'd  waters  of  a  mountain  lake  ! 
Still,  as  he  gaz'd,  the  phantom's  mournful  glance 
Shook  the  deep  slumber  of  his  deathlike  trance  ; 
Like  some  forgotten  strain  that  haunts  us  still, 
That  calm  eye  follow'd,  turn  him  where  he  will ; 
Till  the  pale  monarch,  and  the  long  array, 
Pass'd  like  a  morning  mist,  in  tears  away  ! 

Then  all  his  dream  was  troubled,  and  his  soul 
Thrill'd  with  a  dread  no  slumber  could  control ; 
On  that  dark  form  his  eyes  had  gaz'd  before, 
Nor  known  it  then  ;  —  but  it  was  veil'd  no  more  ! 
In  broad  clear  light  the  ghastly  vision  shone,  — 
That  form  was  his,  —  those  features  were  his  own  ! 
The  night  of  terrors,  and  the  day  of  care, 
The  years  of  toil  —  all,  all  were  written  there  ! 
Sad  faces  watch'd  around  him,  and  his  breath 
Came  faint  and  feeble  in  the  embrace  of  death. 
The  gathering  tempest,  with  its  voice  of  fear, 
His  latest  loftiest  music  smote  his  ear  ! 
That  day  of  boundless  hope  and  promise  high, 
That  day  that  hail'd  his  triumphs,  saw  him  die  ! 
Then  from  those  whitening  lips,  as  death  drew  near, 
The  imprisoning  chains  fell  off,  and  all  was  clear  ! 
Like  lowering  clouds,  that  at  the  close  of  day, 
Bath'd  in  a  blaze  of  sunset,  melt  away  ; 
And  with  its  clear  calm  tones,  that  dying  prayer 
Cheer'd  all  the  failing  hearts  that  sorrow'd  there  ! 


488  THE  HAYSWATER  BOAT. 

A  life  —  whose  ways  no  human  thought  could  scan  ; 
A  life  —  that  was  not  as  the  life  of  man  ; 
A  life  —  that  wrote  its  purpose  with  a  sword, 
Moulding  itself  into  action,  not  in  word  ! 
Rent  with  tumultuous  thoughts,  whose  conflict  rung 
Deep  through  his  soul,  and  chok'd  his  faltering  tongue  ; 
A  heart  that  reck'd  not  of  the  countless  dead, 
That  strew'd  the  blood-stain'd  path  where  Empire  led  ; 
A  daring  hand,  that  shrunk  not  to  fulfil 
The  thought  that  spurr'd  it ;  and  a  dauntless  will, 
Bold  action's  parent ;  and  a  piercing  ken 
Through  the  dark  chambers  of  the  hearts  of  men, 
To  read  each  thought,  and  teach  that  master-mind 
The  fears  and  hopes  and  passions  of  mankind  ; 
All  these  were  thine  —  oh  thought  of  fear  !  —  and  thou, 
Stretch'd  on  that  bed  of  death,  art  nothing  now. 

Then  all  his  vision  faded,  and  his  soul 
Sprang  from  its  sleep  !  and  lo  !  the  waters  roll 
Once  more  beneath  him  ;  and  the  fluttering  sail, 
Where  the  dark  ships  rode  proudly,  woo'd  the  gale ; 
And  the  wind  murmur'd  round  him,  and  he  stood 
Once  more  alone  beside  the  gleaming  flood. 


THE  HAYSWATER   BOAT. 

A  region  desolate  and  wild. 
Black,  chafing  water  :   and  afloat, 
And  lonely  as  a  truant  child 
In  a  waste  wood,  a  single  boat : 
No  mast,  no  sails  are  set  thereon  ; 
It  moves,  but  never  moveth  on  : 
And  welters  like  a  human  thing 
Amid  the  wild  waves  weltering. 


THE  HAYS  WATER  BOAT.  489 

Behind,  a  buried  vale  doth  sleep, 
Far  down  the  torrent  cleaves  its  way  : 
In  front  the  dumb  rock  rises  steep, 
A  fretted  wall  of  blue  and  gray  ; 
Of  shooting  cliff  and  crumbled  stone 
With  many  a  wild  weed  overgrown  : 
All  else,  black  water  :  and  afloat, 
One  rood  from  shore,  that  single  boat. 

Last  night  the  wind  was  up.  and  strong ; 

The  gray-streak'd  waters  labor  still : 

The  strong  blast  brought  a  pigmy  throng 

From  that  mild  hollow  in  the  hill ; 

From  those  twin  brooks,  that  beached  strand 

So  featly  strewn  with  drifted  sand  ; 

From  those  weird  domes  of  mounded  green 

That  spot  the  solitary  scene. 

This  boat  they  found  against  the  shore  : 

The  glossy  rushes  nodded  by. 

One  rood  from  land  they  push'd,  no  more ; 

Then  rested,  listening  silently. 

The  loud  rains  lash'd  the  mountain's  crown, 

The  grating  shingle  straggled  down  : 

All  night  they  sate  ;  then  stole  away, 

And  left  it  rocking  in  the  bay. 

Last  night  ?  —  I  look'd,  the  sky  was  clear. 
The  boat  was  old,  a  batter'd  boat. 
In  sooth,  it  seems  a  hundred  year 
Since  that  strange  crew  did  ride  afloat. 
The  boat  hath  drifted  in  the  bay  — 
The  oars  have  moulder'd  as  they  lay  — 
The  rudder  swings  —  yet  none  doth  steer. 
What  living  hand  hath  brought  it  here? 


4Q0  DESTINY. 


SONNET   TO    THE  HUNGARIAN 
NA  TION 

Examiner,  July  21,  1849. 

Not  in  sunk  Spain's  prolong'd  death  agony ; 

Not  in  rich  England,  bent  but  to  make  pour 

The  flood  of  the  world's  commerce  on  her  shore ; 

Not  in  that  madhouse,  France,  from  whence  the  cry 

Afflicts  grave  Heaven  with  its  long  senseless  roar ; 

Not  in  American  vulgarity, 

Nor  wordy  German  imbecility  — 

Lies  any  hope  of  heroism  more. 

Hungarians  !     Save 'the  world  !     Renew  the  stories 

Of  men  who  against  hope  repell'd  the  chain, 

And  make  the  world's  dead  spirit  leap  again  ! 

On  land  renew  that  Greek  exploit,  whose  glories 

Hallow  the  Salaminian  promontories, 

And  the  Armada  flung  to  the  fierce  main. 


DESTINY. 


Why  each  is  striving,  from  of  old, 
To  love  more  deeply  than  he  can  ? 
Still  would  be  true,  yet  still  grows  cold  ? 
—  Ask  of  the  Powers  that  sport  with  man  ! 

They  yok'd  in  him,  for  endless  strife, 
A  heart  of  ice,  a  soul  of  fire  ; 
And  hiuTd  him  on  the  Field  of  Life, 
An  aimless  unallay'd  Desire. 


COURAGE.  491 


COURAGE. 

True,  we  must  tame  our  rebel  will : 
True,  we  must  bow  to  Nature's  law  : 
Must  bear  in  silence  many  an  ill ; 
Must  learn  to  wail,  renounce,  withdraw. 

Yet  now,  when  boldest  wills  give  place, 
When  Fate  and  Circumstance  are  strong, 
And  in  their  rush  the  human  race 
Are  swept,  like  huddling  sheep,  along : 

Those  sterner  spirits  let  me  prize, 
Who,  though  the  tendence  of  the  whole 
They  less  than  us  might  recognize, 
Kept,  more  than  us,  their  strength  of  soul. 

Yes,  be  the  second  Cato  prais'd  ! 
Not  that  he  took  the  course  to  die  — 
But  that,  when  'gainst  himself  he  rais'd 
His  arm,  he  rais'd  it  dauntlessly. 

And,  Byron  !  let  us  dare  admire 
If  not  thy  fierce  and  turbid  song, 
Yet  that,  in  anguish,  doubt,  desire, 
Thy  fiery  courage  still  was  strong. 

The  sun  that  on  thy  tossing  pairi 
Did  with  such  cold  derision  shine, 
He  crush'd  thee  not  with  his  disdain  — 
He  had  his  glow,  and  thou  hadst  thine. 


492  THEKLA*S  ANSWER. 

Our  bane,  disguise  it  as  we  may, 
Is  weakness,  is  a  faltering  course. 
Oh  that  past  times  could  give  our  day, 
Join'd  to  its  clearness,  of  their  force  ! 


THEKLA'S  ANSWER. 

From  Schiller. 

Where  I  am,  thou  ask'st,  and  where  I  wended 
When  my  fleeting  shadow  pass'd  from  thee  ?  — 

Am  I  not  concluded  now,  and  ended  ? 
Have  not  life  and  love  been  granted  me? 

Ask,  where  now  those  nightingales  are  singing, 
Who,  of  late,  on  the  soft  nights  of  May, 

Set  thine  ears  with  soul-fraught  music  ringing  — 
Only,  while  their  love  liv'd,  lasted  they. 

Find  I  him,  for  whom  I  had  to  sever?  — 
Doubt  it  not,  we  met,  and  we  are  one. 

There,  where  what  is  join'd,  is  join'd  for  ever, 
There,  where  tears  are  never  more  to  run. 


'j 


There  thou  too  shalt  live  with  us  together, 
When  thou  too  hast  borne  the  love  we  bore  : 

There,  from  sin  deliver'd,  dwells  my  Father, 
Track'd  by  Murder's  bloody  sword  no  more. 

There  he  feels,  it  was  no  dream  deceiving 
Lur'd  him  starwards  to  uplift  his  eye  : 

God  doth  match  his  gifts  to  man's  believing; 
Believe,  and  thou  shalt  find  the  Holy  nigh. 

All  thou  augurest  here  of  lovely  seeming 
There  shall  find  fulfilment  in  its  day  : 

Dare,  O  Friend,  be  wandering,  dare  be  dreaming  ; 
Lofty  thought  lies  oft  in  childish  play. 


NOTES. 


Note  i,  Page  2. 

Sa?o   The    Wide  Prospect,  and  the  Asian  Fen. 

The  name  Europe  (EvpuTnj,  the  wide  prospect)  probably 
describes  the  appearance  of  the  European  coast  to  the  Greeks 
on  the  coast  of  Asia  Minor  opposite.  The  name  Asia,  again, 
comes,  it  has  been  thought,  from  the  muddy  fens  of  the  rivers 
of  Asia  Minor,  such  as  the  Cayster  or  Meander,  which  struck 
the  imagination  of  the  Greeks  living  near  them. 

Note  2,  Page  8. 

Mycerinus. 

"  After  Chephren,  Mycerinus,  son  of  Cheops,  reigned  over 
Egypt.  He  abhorred  his  father's  courses,  and  judged  his  sub- 
jects more  justly  than  any  of  their  kings  had  done.  To  him 
there  came  an  oracle  from  the  city  of  Buto,  to  the  effect  that 
he  was  to  live  but  six  years  longer,  and  to  die  in  the  seventh 
year  from  that  time."  —  Herodotus. 

Note  3,  Page  37. 

Stagirius. 

Stagirius  was  a  young  monk  to  whom  St.  Chrysostom 
addressed  three  books,  and  of  whom  those  books  give  an 
account.  They  will  be  found  in  the  first  volume  of  the  Bene- 
dictine edition  of  St.  Chrysostom's  works. 

Note  4,  Page  51. 

That  wayside  inn  we  left  to-day. 

Those  who  have  been  long  familiar  with  the  English  Lake 
Country  will  find  no  difficulty  in  recalling,  from  the  description 

493 


494  A'OT/is. 

in  the  text,  the  roadside  inn  at  Wythburn,  on  the  descent  from 
Dunmail  Raise  towards  Keswick;  its  sedentary  landlord  of 
thirty  years  ago;  and  the  passage  over  the  Wythburn  Fells  to 
Watendlath. 

Note  5,  Page  61. 
Sohrab  and  Rustutn. 

The  story  of  Sohrab  and  Rustum  is  told  in  Sir  John 
Malcolm's  "  History  of  Persia,"  as  follows:  — 

"  The  young  Sohrab  was  the  fruit  of  one  of  Rustum's  early 
amours.  He  had  left  his  mother,  and  sought  fame  under  the 
banners  of  Afrasiab,  whose  armies  he  commanded;  and  soon 
obtained  a  renown  beyond  that  of  all  contemporary  heroes  but 
his  father.  He  had  carried  death  and  dismay  into  the  ranks 
of  the  Persians,  and  had  terrified  the  boldest  warriors  of  that 
country,  before  Rustum  encountered  him,  which  at  last  that 
hero  resolved  to  do  under  a  feigned  name.  They  met  three 
times.  The  first  time,  they  parted  by  mutual  consent,  though 
Sohrab  had  the  advantage ;  the  second,  the  youth  obtained  a 
victory,  but  granted  life  to  his  unknown  father;  the  third  was 
fatal  to  Sohrab,  who,  when  writhing  in  the  pangs  of  death, 
warned  his  conqueror  to  shun  the  vengeance  that  is  inspired 
by  parental  woes,  and  bade  him  dread  the  rage  of  the  mighty 
Rustum,  who  must  soon  learn  that  he  had  slain  his  son  Sohrab. 
These  words,  we  are  told,  were  as  death  to  the  aged  hero  ;  and 
when  he  recovered  from  a  trance,  he  called  in  despair  for 
proofs  of  what  Sohrab  had  said.  The  afflicted  and  dying 
youth  tore  open  his  mail,  and  showed  his  father  a  seal  which 
his  mother  had  placed  on  his  arm  when  she  discovered  to  him 
the  secret  of  his  birth,  and  bade  him  seek  his  father.  The 
sight  of  his  own  signet  rendered  Rustum  quite  frantic :  he 
cursed  himself,  attempting  to  put  an  end  to  his  existence,  and 
was  only  prevented  by  the  efforts  of  his  expiring  son.  After 
Sohrab's  death,  he  burned  his  tents  and  all  his  goods,  and  car- 
ried the  corpse  to  Seistan,  where  it  was  interred ;  the  army  of 
Turan  was,  agreeably  to  the  last  request  of  Sohrab,  permitted 
to  cross  the  Oxus  unmolested.  To  reconcile  us  to  the  improb- 
ability of  this  tale,  we  are  informed  that  Rustum  could  have 
no  idea  his  son  was  in  existence.  The  mother  of  Sohrab  had 
written  to  him  her  child  was  a  daughter,  fearing  to  lose  her 


notes.  495 

darling  infant  if  she  revealed  the  truth ;  and  Rustum,  as  before 
stated,  fought  under  a  feigned  name,  an  usage  not  uncommon 
in  the  chivalrous  combats  of  those  days." 

Note  6,  Page  96. 
Balder  Dead. 

"  Balder  the  Good  having  been  tormented  with  terrible 
dreams,  indicating  that  his  life  was  in  great  peril,  communi- 
cated them  to  the  assembled  ^Esir,  who  resolved  to  conjure  all 
things  to  avert  from  him  the  threatened  danger.  Then  Frigga 
exacted  an  oath  from  fire  and  water,  from  iron  and  all  other 
metals,  as  well  as  from  stones,  earths,  diseases,  beasts,  birds, 
poisons,  and  creeping  things,  that  none  of  them  would  do  any 
harm  to  Balder.  When  this  was  done,  it  became  a  favorite 
pastime  of  the  jEsir,  at  their  meetings,  to  get  Balder  to  stand 
up  and  serve  them  as  a  mark,  some  hurling  darts  at  him,  some 
stones,  while  others  hewed  at  him  with  their  swords  and  battle- 
axes  ;  for,  do  they  what  they  would,  none  of  them  could  harm 
him,  and  this  was  regarded  by  all  as  a  great  honor  shown  to 
Balder.  But  when  Loki  beheld  the  scene,  he  was  sorely  vexed 
that  Balder  was  not  hurt.  Assuming,  therefore,  the  shape  of 
a  woman,  he  went  to  Fensalir,  the  mansion  of  Frigga.  That 
goddess,  when  she  saw  the  pretended  woman,  inquired  of  her 
if  she  knew  what  the  ^Esir  were  doing  at  their  meetings.  She 
replied,  that  they  were  throwing  darts  and  stones  at  Balder 
without  being  able  to  hurt  him. 

" '  Ay,'  said  Frigga,  '  neither  metal  nor  wood  can  hurt 
Balder,  for  I  have  exacted  an  oath  from  all  of  them.' 

"'What!'  exclaimed  the  woman,  'have  all  things  sworn 
to  spare  Balder  ? ' 

'"All  things,'  replied  Frigga,  'except  one  little  shrub  that 
grows  on  the  eastern  side  of  Valhalla,  and  is  called  Mistletoe, 
and  which  I  thought  too  young  and  feeble  to  crave  an  oath 
from.' 

"  As  soon  as  Loki  heard  this,  he  went  away,  and,  resuming 
his  natural  shape,  cut  off  the  mistletoe,  and  repaired  to  the 
place  where  the  gods  were  assembled.  There  he  found  Hodur 
standing  apart,  without  partaking  of  the  sports,  on  account  of 
his  blindness;  and  going  up  to  him  said,  'Why  dost  thou  not 
also  throw  something  at  Balder  ? ' 


496  NOTES. 

"'Because  I  am  blind,'  answered  Hoclur,  'and  see  not 
where  Balder  is,  and  have,  moreover,  nothing  to  throw  with.' 

'"Come,  then,'  said  Loki,  'do  like  the  rest,  and  show 
honor  to  Balder  by  throwing  this  twig  at  him,  and  I  will 
direct  thy  arm  toward  the  place  where  he  stands.' 

"  Hodur  then  took  the  mistletoe,  and,  under  the  guidance  of 
Loki,  darted  it  at  Balder,  who,  pierced  through  and  through, 
fell  down  lifeless."  —  Edda. 

Note  7,  Page  133. 
Tristram   and  Iseidt. 

"  In  the  court  of  his  uncle  King  Marc,  the  king  of  Cornwall, 
who  at  this  time  resided  at  the  castle  of  Tyntagel,  Tristram 
became  expert  in  all  knightly  exercises.  The  king  of  Ireland, 
at  Tristram's  solicitations,  promised  to  bestow  his  daughter 
Iseult  in  marriage  on  King  Marc.  The  mother  of  Iseult  gave 
to  her  daughter's  confidante  a  philtre,  or  love-potion,  to  be 
administered  on  the  night  of  her  nuptials.  Of  this  beverage 
Tristram  and  Iseult,  on  their  voyage  to  Cornwall,  unfortu- 
nately partook.  Its  influence,  during  the  remainder  of  their 
lives,  regulated  the  affections  and  destiny  of  the  lovers. 

"  After  the  arrival  of  Tristram  and  Iseult  in  Cornwall,  and 
the  nuptials  of  the  latter  with  King  Marc,  a  great  part  of  the 
romance  is  occupied  with  their  contrivances  to  procure  secret 
interviews.  —  Tristram,  being  forced  to  leave  Cornwall  on  ac- 
count of  the  displeasure  of  his  uncle,  repaired  to  Brittany, 
where  lived  Iseult  with  the  White  Hands.  He  married  her, 
more  out  of  gratitude  than  love.  Afterwards  he  proceeded 
to  the  dominions  of  Arthur,  which  became  the  theatre  of 
unnumbered  exploits. 

"  Tristram,  subsequent  to  these  events,  returned  to  Brittany, 
and  to  his  long-neglected  wife.  There,  being  wounded  and 
sick,  he  was  soon  reduced  to  the  lowest  ebb.  In  this  situation, 
he  dispatched  a  confidant  to  the  queen  of  Cornwall,  to  try  if 
he  could  induce  her  to  accompany  him  to  Brittany,"  etc.  — 
Dunlop's  History  of  Fiction. 

Note  8,  Page  169. 
That  son  of  Italy  who  tried  to  blow. 
Giacopone  di  Todi. 


notes.  497 

Note  9,  Page  174. 
Recalls  the  obscure  opposer  he  outweighed. 
Gilbert  de  la  Porree,  at  the  Council  of  Rheims  in  1 148. 

Note  10,  Page  175. 

Of  that  unpitying  Phrygian  sect  which  cried. 

The  Montanists. 

Note  ii,  Page  176. 

Monica. 

See  St.  Augustine's  "  Confessions,"  book  ix.  chapter  1 1 . 

Note  12,  Page  177. 
My  Marguerite  smiles  upon  the  strand. 

See,  among  "  Early  Poems,"  the  poem  called  "  A  Memory- 
Picture,"  p.  23. 

Note  13,  Page  201. 
The  Hunter  of  the  Tanagrcean  Field. 

Orion,  the  Wild  Huntsman  of  Greek  legend,  and  in  this 
capacity  appearing  in  both  earth  and  sky. 

Note  14,  Page  202. 

O'er  the  sun-reddened  western  straits. 

Erytheia,  the  legendary  region  around  the  Pillars  of  Her- 
cules, probably  took  its  name  from  the  redness  of  the  west, 
under  which  the  Greeks  saw  it. 

Note  15,  Page  224. 
Of  the  sun-loving  gentian,  in  the  heat. 
The  gen  ti  ana  lute  a. 

Note  16,  Page  248. 

Ye  Sun-born  Virgins  !  on  the  road  of  truth. 

See  the  Fragments  of  Parmenides :  — 

.     .     .     Kovpai  5'  6S6v  Tjyefxovevov, 

i]\ia5es  Kovpai,  Trpo\nrovaai  Sw/xara  vvktos, 

els  (pdos 


498  NO  TES. 

Note  17,  Page  381. 

The  Scholar-Gypsy. 

"There  was  very  lately  a  lad  in  the  University  of  Oxford, 
who  was  by  his  poverty  forced  to  leave  his  studies  there ;  and 
at  last  to  join  himself  to  a  company  of  vagabond  gypsies. 
Among  these  extravagant  people,  by  the  insinuating  subtiltv 
of  his  carriage,  he  quickly  got  so  much  of  their  love  and 
esteem  as  that  they  discovered  to  him  their  mystery.  After  he 
had  been  a  pretty  while  exercised  in  the  trade,  there  chanced 
to  ride  by  a  couple  of  scholars,  who  had  formerly  been  of  his 
acquaintance.  They  quickly  spied  out  their  old  friend  among 
the  gypsies ;  and  he  gave  them  an  account  of  the  necessity 
which  drove  him  to  that  kind  of  life,  and  told  them  that  the 
people  he  went  with  were  not  such  impostors  as  they  were 
taken  for,  but  that  they  had  a  traditional  kind  of  learning 
among  them,  and  could  do  wonders  by  the  power  of  imagina- 
tion, their  fancy  binding  that  of  others ;  that  himself  had 
learned  much  of  their  art,  and  when  he  had  compassed  the 
whole  secret,  he  intended,  he  said,  to  leave  their  company,  and 
give  the  world  an  account  of  what  he  had  learned."  —  Glan- 
Vil's  Vanity  of  Dogmatizing,  1661. 

Note  18,  Page  389. 

Thyrsis. 

Throughout  this  poem  there  is  reference  to  the  preceding 
piece,  "  The  Scholar-Gypsy." 

Note  19,  Page  395. 

Young  Daphnis  with  his  silver  voice  doth  sing. 

Daphnis,  the  ideal  Sicilian  shepherd  of  Greek  pastoral 
poetry,  was  said  to  have  followed  into  Phrygia  his  mistress 
Piplea,  who  had  been  carried  off  by  robbers,  and  to  have 
found  her  in  the  power  of  the  king  of  Phrygia,  Lityerses. 
Lityerses  used  to  make  strangers  try  a  contest  with  him  in 
reaping  corn,  and  to  put  them  to  death  if  he  overcame  them. 
Hercules  arrived  in  time  to  save  Daphnis,  took  upon  himself 
the  reaping-contest  with  Lityerses,  overcame  him,  and  slew  him. 
Tin'  Litycrses-song  connected  with  this  tradition  was,  like  the 


NOTES.  499 

Linus-song,  one  of  the  early  plaintive  strains  of  Greek  popular 
poetry,  and  used  to  be  sung  by  corn-reapers.  Other  traditions 
represented  Daphnis  as  beloved  by  a  nymph  who  exacted  from 
him  an  oath  to  love  no  one  else.  He  fell  in  love  with  a  prin- 
cess, and  was  struck  blind  by  the  jealous  nymph.  Mercury, 
who  was  his  father,  raised  him  to  heaven,  and  made  a  foun- 
tain spring  up  in  the  place  from  which  he  ascended.  At  this 
fountain  the  Sicilians  offered  yearly  sacrifices.  See  Servius, 
Comment,  in  Virgil.  Bucol.,  v.  20  and  viii.  68. 

Note  20,  Page  402. 

Ah  !  ivhere  is  he,  who  should  have  come. 

The  author's  brother,  William  Delafield  Arnold,  Director  of 
Public  Instruction  in  the  Punjab,  and  author  of  "Oakfield,  or 
Fellowship  in  the  East,"  died  at  Gibraltar,  on  his  way  home 
from  India,  April  the  9th,  1859. 

Note  21,  Page  403. 
So  moonlit,  saw  me  once  of  yore. 
See  the  poem,  "  A  Summer  Night,"  p.  280. 

Note  22,  Page  403. 

My  brother !  and  thine  early  lot. 

See  Note  20. 

Note  23,  Page  407. 

/  satu  the  meeting  of  two 
Gifted  women. 

Charlotte  Bronte*  and  Harriet  Martineau. 

Note  24,  Page  410. 

Whose  too  bold  dying  song. 

See  the  last  lines  written  by  Emily  Bronte,  in  "  Poems  by 
Currer,  Ellis,  and  Acton  Bell." 

Note  25,  Page  424. 
Goethe  too  had  been  there. 
See  Harzreise  im  Winter,  in  Goethe's  Gedichte. 


500  NOTES. 

Note  26,  Page  432. 

The  author  of  Obermann,  Ftienne  Pivert  dc  Senancour,  has 
little  celebrity  in  France,  his  own  country;  and  out  of  France 
he  is  almost  unknown.  But  the  profound  inwardness,  the  aus- 
tere sincerity,  of  his  principal  work,  Obermann,  the  delicate 
feeling  for  nature  which  it  exhibits,  and  the  melancholy  elo- 
quence of  many  passages  of  it,  have  attracted  and  charmed 
some  of  the  most  remarkable  spirits  of  this  century,  such  as 
George  Sand  and  Sainte-Beuve,  and  will  probably  always  find 
a  certain  number  of  spirits  whom  they  touch  and  interest. 

Senancour  was  born  in  1770.  He  was  educated  for  the 
priesthood,  and  passed  some  time  in  the  Seminary  of  St.  Sul- 
pice  ;  broke  away  from  the  seminary  and  from  France  itself,  and 
passed  some  years  in  Switzerland,  where  he  married ;  returned 
to  France  in  middle  life,  and  followed  thenceforward  the 
career  of  a  man  of  letters,  but  with  hardly  any  fame  or  suc- 
cess. He  died  an  old  man  in  1846,  desiring  that  on  his  grave 
might  be  placed  these  words  only :  Etemite,  deviens  mon 
asile  ! 

The  influence  of  Rousseau,  and  certain  affinities  with  more 
famous  and  fortunate  authors  of  his  own  day,  —  Chateaubriand 
and  Madame  de  Stael,  —  are  everywhere  visible  in  Senancour. 
But  though,  like  these  eminent  personages,  he  may  be  called 
a  sentimental  writer,  and  though  Obermann,  a  collection  of 
letters  from  Switzerland  treating  almost  entirely  of  nature  and 
of  the  human  soul,  may  be  called  a  work  of  sentiment,  Senan- 
cour has  a  gravity  and  severity  which  distinguish  him  from  all 
other  writers  of  the  sentimental  school.  The  world  is  with 
him  in  his  solitude  far  less  than  it  is  with  them  ;  of  all  writers, 
he  is  the  most  perfectly  isolated  and  the  least  attitudinizing, 
His  chief  work,  too,  has  a  value  and  power  of  its  own,  apart 
from  these  merits  of  its  author.  The  stir  of  all  the  main 
forces  by  which  modern  life  is  and  has  been  impelled  lives 
in  the  letters  of  Obermann;  the  dissolving  agencies  of  the 
eighteenth  century,  the  fiery  storm  of  the  French  Revolution, 
the  first  faint  promise  and  dawn  of  that  new  world  which  our 
own  time  is  but  now  fully  bringing  to  light,  —  all  these  are  to 
be  felt,  almost  to  be  touched,  there.  To  me,  indeed,  it  will 
always  seem  that  the  impressiveness  of  this  production  can 
hardly  be  rated  too  high. 

Besides  Obermann,  there  is  one  other  of  Senancour's  works 


NOTES.  501 

which,  for  those  spirits  who  feel  his  attraction,  is  very  interest- 
ing: its  title  is  Litres  Meditations  d'un  Solitaire  Inconnu. 

Note  27,  Page  432. 

Behind  are  the  abandoned  baths. 

The  Baths  of  Leuk.  This  poem  was  conceived,  and  partly 
composed,  in  the  valley  going  down  from  the  foot  of  the  Gemmi 
Pass  towards  the  Rhone. 

Note  28,  Page  438. 

Glion  ?    Ah  !  twenty  years,  it  cuts. 

Probably  all  who  know  the  Vevey  end  of  the  Lake  of  Geneva 
will  recollect  Glion,  the  mountain  village  above  the  Castle  of 
Chillon.  Glion  now  has  hotels,  pensions,  and  villas;  but  twenty 
years  ago  it  was  hardly  more  than  the  huts  of  Avant  opposite  to 
it,  —  huts  through  which  goes  that  beautiful  path  over  the  Col 
de  Jaman,  followed  by  so  many  foot-travellers  on  their  way  from 
Vevey  to  the  Simmenthal  and  Thun. 

Note  29,  Page  439. 

The  gentian-flowered  pass,  its  crown. 

See  Note  15. 

Note  30,  Page  439. 

And  walls  where  Byron  came. 

Montbovon.  See  Byron's  Journal,  in  his  "  Works,"  vol.  iii. 
p.  258.    The  river  Saane  becomes  the  Sarine  below  Montbovon. 

Note  31,  Page  451. 

Couldst  thou  no  better  keep,  O  Abbey  old, 
The  boon  thy  dedication-sign  foretold. 

"Ailred  of  Rievaulx,  and  several  other  writers,  assert  that 
Sebert,  king  of  the  East  Saxons  and  nephew  of  Ethelbert, 
founded  the  Abbey  of  Westminster  very  early  in  the  seventh 
century. 

"  Sulcardus,  who  lived  in  the  time  of  William  the  Conqueror, 
gives  a  minute  account  of  the  miracle  supposed  to  have  been 
worked  at  the  consecration  of  the  Abbey. 

"The  church  had  been  prepared  against  the  next  day  for 
dedication.     On  the   night  preceding,  St.   Peter   appeared   on 


502  NOTES. 

the  opposite  side  of  the  water  to  a  fisherman,  desiring  to  be 
conveyed  to  the  farther  shore.  Having  left  the  boat,  St.  Peter 
ordered  the  fisherman  to  wait,  promising  him  a  reward  on  his 
return.  An  innumerable  host  from  heaven  accompanied  the 
apostle,  singing  choral  hymns,  while  everything  was  illuminated 
with  a  supernatural  light.  The  dedication  having  been  com- 
pleted, St.  Peter  returned  to  the  fisherman,  quieted  his  alarm 
at  what  had  passed,  and  announced  himself  as  the  apostle.  He 
directed  the  fisherman  to  go  as  soon  as  it  was  day  to  the  author- 
ities, to  state  what  he  had  seen  and  heard,  and  to  inform  them 
that,  in  corroboration  of  his  testimony,  they  would  find  the 
marks  of  consecration  on  the  walls  of  the  church.  In  obedi- 
ence to  the  apostle's  direction,  the  fisherman  waited  on  Mellitus, 
Bishop  of  London,  who,  going  to  the  church,  found  not  only 
marks  of  the  chrism,  but  of  the  tapers  with  which  the  church 
had  been  illuminated.  Mellitus,  therefore,  desisted  from  pro- 
ceeding to  a  new  consecration,  and  contented  himself  with  the 
celebration  of  the  mass."  —  Dugdale,  Monasticon  Anglicanum 
(edition  of  i8i7),vol.  i.  pp.  265,  266.  See  also  Montalem- 
BERT,  Les  Moines  d'  Occident,  vol.  iii.  pp.  428-432. 

Note  32,  Page  454. 

The  charmed  babe  of  the  Eleusinian  king. 

Demophoon,  son   of  Celeus,   king  of  Eleusis.     See,  in   the 
Homeric  Hymns,  the  Hymn  to  Demeter,  184-298. 

Note  33,  Page  455. 

That  Pair,  whose  head  did  plan,  whose  hands  did  forge 
The  Temple  in  the  pure  Parnassian  gorge. 

Agamedes  and  Trophonius,  the  builders  of  the  temple   of 

Apollo  at  Delphi.     See  Plutarch,   Consolatio  ad  Apollonium, 

c.  14. 

Note  34,  Page  465. 

StoPn  from  Aristophanes. 

See  The  Birds  of  Aristophanes,  465-485. 

Note  35,  Page  467. 

Of  Robin's  reed. 

"Come,  join  the  melancholious  croon 

O'  Robin's  reed."  —  Burns,  Poor  Maine's  Elegy. 


UN'VEBSITY  OF  CA. ««_ 

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